


Please, keep me.

by Prototype



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventure, Affection, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Alternate Universe, Angel Crowley, Angel Hierarchy, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Before Earth timeline, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Book/Movie: The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, Bookshop Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Children's Literature, Children's Stories, Christmas, Christmas Tree Festival, Comfort, Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Crowley pretends to be a Snake, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deception, Diagon Alley, Elves workshop, Enchanted library, Fairytale characters - Freeform, Father Christmas - Freeform, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Friendship/Love, Gardens & Gardening, Gentle adventures, Handfeeding, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Klaus 2019 movie, Librarian Aziraphale (Good Omens), Library AU, Literature, Lovestruck mush, Lucifer - Freeform, Lucifer freeform, M/M, Mad Hatter - Freeform, Magic, Male-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Male-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), March Hare - Freeform, Mr Benn - Freeform, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Paradise AU, Peter Rabbit - Freeform, Picnics, Plenty of OCs and non-canon characters, Protective Crowley, Pure overindulgence in adjectives, Red Riding Hood - Freeform, Safe Spaces, Scolding, Secrets, Sense and sensibility 1995 film, Seraphim, Serpent Crowley, Shapeshifter Crowley (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Spying, Starmaker Crowley, Tags Are Hard, The Tiger Who Came To Tea, Winter Wonderland, crowley is an idiot, dormouse - Freeform, enchanted forest, fireside naps, mild self-harm reference (very mild), seraph - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:35:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 81,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24777742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prototype/pseuds/Prototype
Summary: Before there was an Earth and before there was a Garden, there was a Library. A library full of every book, novel, bedtime story and Victoria Sponge recipe that would ever come into being. They will exist, therefore they do exist, and therefore they need to be Kept. For that job one would need a Keeper, and not just any Keeper - Crowley has an exact Keeper in mind.  A small, quiet Keeper who borrows books from the Library and secrets them back to his room at night, who forgets what he's meant to be doing and spends his days sitting on the floor with a stack in front of him and his wings getting dusty as he turns pages.Crowley watches and he yearns. What starts as a means to spy on his fellow angel results in a delightful friendship full of small literary adventures, golden hour picnics, secret attic spaces, and a deep and profound attachment to one and other.---I started this as a way to provide some comfort for myself, imagining how these two would interact with some of my favourite books and children's stories. I hope others find it comforting too.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 29





	1. The Great Hall

Waking was never pleasant. Not when sleep had some much more room to breathe, to feel nothing and just be. Crowley knew sloth was a wasteful thing, but he loved to sleep. Why even have an invention like a bed if not to sleep in it? 

He woke on his front this time, his face buried in between the crook of his arm and the linen of his bed. What followed was a long groan and a rubbing of his hands across his face, rubbing away the faint trail of drool at the corner of his mouth and brushing his hair from his eyes. He rolled onto his back, kicking the twisted cover off of his body and stretching in a long, languid motion. After this he just lay there staring up at his ceiling with the usual waking glumness descending onto him. 

Waking up wasn’t pleasant. Being awake was worse. 

With a critical sigh, as if to an unseen voice telling him to rise, he rolled up and off of the bed and began yet another day in Paradise. 

Crowley had a mental list that he added to every day, ticking off each tiny annoyance and dislike that he found himself suffering through on a daily basis. It always starting with waking, followed quickly by getting up and not long after that came the initial chill of his leaving his small room and walking the corridors towards the washrooms. At least the washroom itself wasn’t too disappointing, although he felt the closed in walls and endless white tile a bit uninspired. At this time of the afternoon there was no one left on his level and he had the circular dipped room to himself. It was more of a dome than a room, with a circular track of tile lining the walls with a ridge to sit, whether to wait for a turn or to put robes to one side. To the inside of the track the floor dipped in a gentle slope, creating a pool in the centre of the washroom. The walls curved up and over to finish off the egg shape, with a glowing circle at the very top giving the room a bright, oddly cool and clinical tone. 

Crowley walked the track to no particular spot, pulling his robe free and bundling it onto the ridge before descending into the pool. Once he reached the centre he looked up and raised one arm, and the glowing circle above him began to pour down. Light flowed from the ceiling in a steady stream like fluid, and he closed his eyes as it covered him. This never made the list, he loved this feeling almost as much as he loved to sleep. 

Crowley turned, letting the stream of light cascade across his shoulders and down his back. It felt warm with a slight tingling buzz that he loved. He rubbed his hands across his skin, winding through the tendrils of light and feeling it slip through his fingers with a tickle. The light gathered at the bottom of the pool around his feet, swirling and lapping gently like a fog. Despite the steady stream, it never seemed to fill beyond his ankles unless he wanted it to. He knew he should wash quickly, but instead he pulled his wings into this plane and spread them wide for another long and lazy stretch, the tip of each primary brushing each side of the washroom. He felt a shiver pass from his skin into his wings, the feathers ruffling slightly as he pulled them back towards himself, moving so the light poured across them. Twisting his body a little he was able to reach to touch his wings and smooth the light clinging to the feathers in between each shaft. He worked quickly, keeping one ear on any signs of others from the door. 

Once fully bathed and shining with the light he stood away from the stream of light and raised a hand again. The last of the stream of light trickled down, the pool already fading. He shook his wings quickly, smoothing his hands across the main flight feathers and lying them flat, before shrugging them away unseen again. 

He dressed quickly, aware he was likely to be late. There were no bells in the lower layers, he somehow managed to wake up close to the beginning of the dusk. He moved quickly through the expansive corridors of rooms and stairs upwards, his bare feet gathering stone dust as he hurried. He climbed one of the many spiral staircases before suddenly finding himself out on the floor of the grand hall. He didn’t stop, moving again to one of the spiral staircases that lined the lower refractory hall. He didn’t stop until he was at his usual haunting spot, tucked behind one of the arching pillars that supported the vaulted ceiling above the hall. He sat low in the stool he always sat in, crossing his arms along the ledge that overlooked the hall and leant his chin on his arms, confident that once again he would blend into the elaborate carved surroundings and could watch in peace. 

The hall was long - almost stupidly long, being one of those buildings that seemed to expand and contract depending on the needs of its many occupants. The downstairs level was lined with row after row of wooden tables and pews, all carved wood and polished to a high shine. The walls underneath the overlooking floor Crowley liked to hide himself on were lined with dramatic and ridiculous paintings of Paradise and all of it’s mighty achievements. These expansive murals didn’t seem to start or end in any particular order, but it wasn’t likely any of the visiting angels to the hall even noticed them after so much time seeing them. The stories of the might and majesty of Her and all of Her achievements and great deeds, and triumphs. Not a whole lot of narrative tension when your God was the only one writing history and the angels being told it are the only ones painting the murals. Not that they weren’t beautiful, in their own way, but Crowley found them all a little bit  _ holy than thou, _ which he supposed grumpily was the point. He added this grumble to his mental list and kept these thoughts to himself. 

The mezzanine Crowley found himself on overlooked the hallway with yet more tables and pews, only they didn’t seem particularly used. The murals up here were a little more to his tastes, showing the world that She was planning. An expansive garden painted with plants and flowers and trees, and dozens of odd looking little creatures - She called them animals. Each one was a little different to the next. One might have two legs with flappy little feet and two things that maybe could have been wings if they weren’t so uselessly tucked up against the body; the next maybe would have dozens of spots all over and something called a tail sprouting from it’s behind. Her imagination was seemingly limitless when it came to variety. Crowley preferred these plans to the ones downstairs, if only because none of these animals were painted with simpering adoring expressions with their eyes cast upwards. Apparently the whole idea would be they wouldn't know anything about Her or them, or anything outside of eating each other and making more of themselves. He wasn’t so sure what that meant exactly, but it sounded promising. 

Beyond the second layer the pillars branched out and crisscrossed the ceiling with an expansive golden framework of diamonds, filled in with swirling blue and purple sky and dozens of golden stars. It was purely decorative, but still very beautiful. He wasn’t there to admire the colours, although he did cast an appreciative glance above. 

Truthfully Crowley wasn’t late for his work. In fact he was rather early. The rest of his class would not be making their way into the hall for another turn of the hourglass, his peers would only now start leaving their rooms and taking turns in the lightpool. He was here to spy. He didn’t have to wait long. A single toned bell chord rang out from the clock suspended one end of the hallway, a representational orb of the sun marking the end of the day to dusk shift. On cue angels began milling out of doors at the end of the hall, laughter echoing up to Crowley’s hiding spot. They all wore bright robes signifying them as the day shift - golds and orches, whites and tangerine. Many of them had gold in their hair or around their eyes, some on their hands. They walked in groups, smiling and laughing together after a day performing their duties of exaltation, whatever that meant. Crowley tracked a few that he recognised, but he mostly recognised the colours. Light grey for the speakers of the Word, gold for the actions of the Word. The soft yellow was for the Makers and Growers, fresh faced after a day in the green houses and workshops. A pale orange for the Builders. He ignored them though, looking for cream. There weren’t many of them, the smallest of the day. One here, one there, but not the right one - ah, there. Near the end of them all, which shouldn’t be a surprise. 

The angel was small by angel’s standards, a little rounded of the shoulder and walking carefully as to not touch any of his peers as he made his way to a side bench of the hall. The Keepers only counted a few in their number, but they rarely sat together. Outside of their duties angels could move freely amongst friends, and this angel seemed to choose to sit alone when he could. He held the same as the others, a small goblet of nectar and a parcel of bread and honey, but he didn’t seem very interested in it once he set it down and sat with his back to the rest of the hall. Crowley tracked him with his eyes and sighed to himself, feeling a small smile prickle on his face as watched the white in cream glance furtively around him to check he wasn’t observed before pulling a book from inside of his robes. He tucked it close to him on the table and bent his head over it, fully absorbed. To anyone glancing his way he only looked as if he were busying himself with his supper, but Crowley knew the truth. 

Crowley sighed a little again, relaxing into his arms as he studied the angel. He liked the way he sat up straight, with his feet tucked under the bench and crossed together, one elbow on the table and his head resting serenely in his hands like one of those ridiculous cherubs in all the murals. His bare feet even dustier from his day in the Library than Crowley’s own were from the lower levels. He wore his robes exactly the way he was meant to, looped around him in a fastidious manner, but the patches of dust were easy to spot. Crowley’s eyes traced the shape of his shoulders up into his soft curls, the colour of milk. Crowley watched him for some time, smiling every time the angel carefully turned a page and checked over his shoulder every time. Crowley knew, even if he couldn’t see today, he was smiling softly to himself, his eyes intent on each page.

Before he was ready to give up his little spying post, the next shift of angels started to move into the hall from the lower levels. The volume of chatter increased again, and the little Keeper glanced up, moving the book from the table onto his lap in a careful motion. He tucked it away, before rising with his supper and gave up his table to an approaching group of Weavers in their lilac robes and loud voices who didn’t seem to notice him at all. 

Crowley watched the angel move to the side of the hall, looking around furtively but avoiding any eyes as he slipped away downstairs with his food and his secretive book to keep him company until he was called again. 

Crowley sighed, seeing the last glance of curly white hair disappear and like that, the best day of his day was gone. Now to eat, to work, to sleep and to wait to do it all over again. 


	2. The Greenhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets the barest minimum work done and sneaks into the greenhouses to annoy some flowers.

Crowley liked his duties, when all was said and done. He liked being outside the confines of Paradise’s many rooms and hallways and spaces, beautiful and comforting as they might be. Climbing the many, many curved stairs upwards he always looked forward to the moment when the steps gave way to nothingness and he was lifted only by the sweet cool air of space. His dark blue robes fluttered as he pushed himself away from the stairway and moved into the open expanse. Up here there was only rolling colours and gigantic planes of howling wind, buffeting storm systems and cosmic dust this way and that. Many of the angels in his rank were already here, all moving effortlessly against the wind towards their star systems, paintbrushes and stars tucked into their pockets ready to start their work. They were easy to see, with their long white wings against the backdrop of darkness. Crowley looked away, and looked towards the rough thing that the others of his unit were working on - something huge and ugly and without any real form. It was being built from molten rock and metal, plastered with layers and layers of stone and dirt. The Builders had been with it all day, heaping stone upon stone to form mountains, splitting the rock in two to make something they called ‘countries’. Now the Carvers were there, armed with pickaxes and lances to score the earth with lines and ridges and dig into the valleys. They wore shades of brown to match their frequently sour expressions, their work constantly undone by eager Builders. He didn’t envy them - there didn’t seem to be much fun outside of smashing through a mountain or two. 

With a sigh that seemed to be snatched from him by the wind, he pushed forward towards his little area of the sky. Without using his wings he found himself working a little harder to get there but with persistence he was soon back amongst his work from the previous night. He reached into his robes and pulled his paint brushes free, reaching into another hidden pocket for his ink pot. He had already positioned the two larger stars, a product of a collaboration of himself and one of the less irritating Builders. He held the smallest star in both of his hands and looked at it carefully, studying it for any faults. The little star glowed in his cupped hands, the light casting off of it coming as a white tinted with a warm hue. It reminded him, inexplicably, of his little angel from the refectory. Small and unassuming, but so bright. He swallowed down a strong feeling that threatened to bubble up inside of him, and instead blew gently on his cupped hands, encouraging the star to flare a little brighter. 

“Glow better,” he muttered as he reached out and positioned it to complete the triplet star. There wasn’t a blue print to be followed out here in the surrounding skies; he and the other Starmakers had simply been sent to make the heavens as pretty as possible, a vast pleasing light show for whatever She was planning next. Everything was meant to be seen from the lump of dirt nearby. He wasn’t sure, thinking back to the colourful animals in the murals, if any of those dull looking beasts would really appreciate the work they were doing up here. Regardless, he was here to do his duty, and his duty was to paint. He loosened the cap of his ink pot, licked the end of his brush to make it smooth, and began to paint. 

The sounding of a celestial horn signalled the end of the Dusk to Dawn shift, along with a purple faint glow that made it harder to see the nebula he was painstakingly stippling. The time had gone quickly, and he put away his tools, sighing critically at his ink stained hands. He held back from the rest of the Starmakers as they made their way back towards the staircases downstairs, doing his best to ignore the way they called out to each other cheerily. Moving back from the colourful nebula he had been working on, he looked out to take it the entire dome they had been tasked with. It seemed endless, but slowly the dull blacks and greys were being filled in with patchworked areas of deep blue and violet, speckled with stars and planets and asteroids. There were colours hidden amongst them, a flash of brilliant green here or a glow of acidic yellow there. It was peaceful even with the riot of colour. 

“Oi, Crowley! Paradise waits for no angel!”

Crowley heard a voice call out, and frowned before turning to look. One of his unit, someone he didn’t remember the name of even after many decades, was staring back at him from the staircase with a look of bemused irritation. He gathered up his tools and thrust them into pockets as he pushed himself through the wind towards the staircase. He avoided the angel’s eyes even as he got closer, frowning to himself. 

“Why don’t you just use your wings?” asked the angel, and his voice made Crowley’s mood sour even more. He shrugged in lieu of giving an answer. The angel in front of him made an exasperated noise. “Whatever,”

Crowley waited a minute after the angel went down the staircase, wanting to keep some distance between them before following him down back into Paradise. 

There was no point staying in the hall once they came out into its broad space again. He wasn’t hungry for bread or honey, he didn’t want to sit with the rest of his unit while they talked and he didn’t want to simply go back to his room and wait the hours before the day started again. Very soon the Dawn to Day angels would fill the hall on their way to their work, the Lighters in their red robes who always seemed to talk the loudest, laugh the longest. The Cloudmakers weren’t so bad, even if Crowley didn’t care for their pink robes. They painted some beautiful sunrises to go along with that burning gigantic star the Lighters seemed to think was really the best thing ever created. Of course they would, they’re the ones who made it. 

Instead of doing any of unappealing options open to him Crowley slipped away through one of the doors on the far end of the hallway. This part of Paradise would be quiet during this shift, the Growers wouldn’t be coming into the green houses until after the third bell chimed.

He pushed open the heavy glass door carefully as to not let it squeak in protest as its hinges grated on each other. Moving into the humidity of the greenhouse was a world away from the cold sky he was used to. In here it was crowded with life, and Crowley walked deeper into the bustling space. Lush green plants burst from every surface, hanging from the ceiling, trailing vines along the brightly lit glass walls, reaching for him as he slipped further into the green maze. 

His fingers reached out and trailed along a row of ferns curling to greet him. He cursed under his breath, seeing the ink stains on his hand pass through his fingers onto the fern and colour the centre stem a deep purple. Looking at his hands he found them seeped in deep purple and blue still, swirling with glittering light that etched into every crease. 

Moving through the layers of green life he found himself in an area filled with beautiful and small creations, dozens of what he had heard described as ‘flowers’. They numbered in the thousands, and not even in his colourful work station upstairs had ever seen such a variety of colour and vibrancy. He moved along rows of gigantic yellow and brown disc shaped flowers that seemed to follow him as he moved, stopping to trace the smell of a series of deep crimson curled buds with thorns tucked under their leaves. There were bushes of dozens of tiny pink blooms all crowded together on each stem, and unusual looking spiky red leaves that slotted together like a spear. Tousled haphazard petals that started one colour and ended in a brilliant blue. Everywhere he looked there was a new creation to see and he was greedy, wanting to see them all. 

He stopped when he reached a row of flowers that seemed to stand out to him for the wrong reasons. Somehow, in this lush green landscape populated with endless colour, these pure white flowers seemed wrong. Maybe it was the startling lack of colour compared to the banquet he had taken in, or maybe it was the shape the petals suggested as they fanned out. They looked like angels in white robes with their white wings spread wide, rising up from the stem in a defiant manner. 

Whatever it was about them, he didn’t like it. He didn’t enjoy the feeling that swirled in the pit of his stomach looking at this stark white flower - not even a beautiful cream that he could relate to the little Keeper and his curls. No, just cold, lifeless white. 

Frowning, he reached for the flower closest to him and pinched it. Rubbing his thumb down the middle of the petal he left a wide stripe of gleaming purple stardust. It shimmered lightly on the petal before sinking in and spreading like ink along the lines of the flower. He repeated the motion on the remaining petals. And then again, on another flower head. And again on another. He kept going until his hands were free of ink and every white flower was printed with his glittering purple fingerprints. 

Standing back, he smiled. 

“Better,” he muttered. “Keep it up,”

The flowers shivered in agreement, the petals spreading in appreciation of their new colours. Crowley felt a ghost of a smile creep across his face. It didn’t occur to him that whoever had spent their time carefully crafting these flowers might have something to say about his messy fingerprints all over them, but even if it had he wouldn’t have cared much - this was definitely an improvement, even if an unplanned one. 

With one last look at his handiwork, he retreated back towards the door and the solitude of his room. 


	3. The Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is late for his usual session of spying, so finally enters the library looking for the Keeper.

This time when Crowley woke he was flat on his back and his eyes snapped open, consciousness coming back to him like a flash of cold water. He didn’t know what had triggered the sudden awareness of his physical self but he was sitting up and rubbing at his face before parts of him were aware he was even awake. 

Something was different, but he didn’t know what. It wasn’t wrong per say, just irregular. He brushed his hands across his arms, a light shiver moving through the scattering of freckles on his skin. 

He pushed the covering away and reached for his robes, tugging them on carelessly as he left his room. As he walked the echoes of chattering voices confirmed his worry - the bell had already tolled, marking the end of the Day to Dusk shift. He was going to be too late to see the Keeper. 

He quickened his pace a little, gathering up the longer part of his robes as to avoid tripping on them. Climbing the stairs upwards he kept his head down and moved upwards again, avoiding catching the attention of any of the Day shift already seated at the tables. Hiding behind a pillar in the upper mezzanine he finally looked, quickly scanning the hall for a sight of the cream robes and white hair. The uncomfortable tightness that had formed in his chest upon waking grew in strength as his eyes kept flickering from group to group looking for the angel. He wasn’t there. Crowley kept searching but he wasn’t there. 

A noise trapped itself in Crowley’s throat, a mixture of disappointment and worry. The heartbeat fluttering in his chest matching the repetition of thoughts circling in his mind. Maybe the Keeper had moved through the hall and gone below before Crowley had arrived? Maybe he was tucked away in a different part of the hall and Crowley had simply missed him? Maybe he was late leaving his duties? All of these were sensible assumptions to make, but something niggled at him. A distracting little voice that refused to go away. What if he was in trouble somehow? Lost, maybe? Hurt? The library was enormous and there weren’t many Keepers who tended it, maybe he was unable to call for any kind of help. Maybe he was scared. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he told himself out loud in an attempt to quell the irrational thought. He turned away from the ledge, running one hand through uncombed red hair. 

“He’s an angel, not some helpless creature,” he muttered. He looked up at the mural in front of him, his eyes meeting the gaze of an animal with large hazel eyes and a large golden mane of hair surrounding its peaceful face. 

“He’s probably fine,” Crowley told the beast. The animal didn’t move, didn’t speak, but it’s eyes stayed connected to Crowley’s as if to make a point. Crowley made another frustrated noise in his throat, sighing heavily and brushing back his hair once again. 

“Ok. Ok, I’ll check. But he’ll be fine.”

Mind made up Crowley turned back towards the grand hall. He would have to be subtle, to avoid any questions. Whilst his shift was coming up soon, it wouldn’t be easy to explain why a Starmaker was going down a set of stairs made for Keepers. Not without further questions possibly revealing more than he would want to address. 

He moved easily to the far end of the hall along the mezzanine, descending the staircase closest to the doorway to the western doorway of Paradise. He emerged in shadow, glancing to the occupants of the nearest tables to see if anyone noticed him but thankfully they didn’t, and he quickly slipped into the doorway and away. 

He had heard of the great library, like he had heard of all of the places in Paradise open to angels, but he had never visited it. Curiosity was not a virtue encouraged in angels, and, whilst Crowley had snuck his way into multiple studios and green houses, he had never ventured any closer to the Keeper and his charge than he dared in the great hall. 

What would he even say if he saw the little angel? What if the angel was in a situation that actually required Crowley to intervene? Actually speak to him, maybe even touch him. To have those eyes aimed solely at himself. 

Crowley stopped walking, a sudden urge to disappear rising up in him. 

“Coward,” he muttered to himself, trying to shake the flare of panic in his chest. He moved forward again, keeping to the side of the corridor and trailing one finger along the wall to keep himself grounded. The corridors here narrowed and became darker, stone giving way to panelled wood and shelves. The shelves seemed to go up further than Crowley could see as they ascended into shadows, and the odd glow of light always seemed to be just out of reach around each twist and turn of the bookshelves. As he moved deeper the library seemed to get darker and quieter, small glowing lights held in suspension above him giving an odd eerie glow to the path. The books were innumerable, filling every single nook and cranny of space. Crowley stopped to run his finger along the spines, noting words on faded paper with gold picking out letters. Some in languages he recognised, others in new ones he had yet to learn. There were illustrations on some of them, curling leaves or filigree. Others were bound in heavy leather and only bore numerals in dark stained letters. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to their positions on the shelves, at least not one Crowley could fathom. He pulled one free, a narrow book with a red leather cover and parchment yellowing with age. It trailed through the dust on the shelf as he eased it free, and the spine creaked gently as he opened it. 

He turned the first page over, reading the name of the book and the author but they didn’t mean anything to him. Thumbing further into the book he glanced over the delicate drawing of a small child holding the hand of a little pot-bellied animal of some kind. 

_ ‘ _ _ Christopher Robin was sitting outside his door, putting on his Big Boots. As soon as he saw the Big Boots, Pooh knew that an Adventure was going to happen’ _

Crowley read the words out loud to himself, having no idea what a Pooh was, or indeed a Christopher, but he had heard of a robin when overhearing a Maker in the grand hall. He turned another page and a piece of paper slipped free, sliding out for him to catch. It was a bit of parchment, not originally from the book but added as a kind of bookmark, with words written in scrawling black ink.

_ As soon as I saw you I knew an adventure was going to happen. _

Crowley hesitated, holding the book in one hand and the little scrap of paper in the other. Something in him said he should keep it. He had never taken anything before. He carefully closed the book and slid it back into place, and then folded the paper and put it into his pocket. He decided not to think about it too hard, instead pushing on in search of the little Keeper. 

The library was enormous, and endless somehow. It would be very easy to get lost, as the shelves branched out and took many twists and turns, forming crossroads and dead ends and row after row after row of books. It was so quiet. Not peaceful, not serene like the stars could be, but silent. It was more of a studied silence, like something sleeping and unaware of its existence. So far he hadn’t seen any signs of the Keeper, or any Keeper for that fact. No footprints or disturbed dust on the shelves, no rustling of robes or wings. 

Crowley’s apprehension grew, he considered calling out but that was not going to happen. 

Eventually, after what seemed like an hour of walking and turning and picking directions of nothing more than a hunch, he heard something ahead of him. He slowed to soften his footsteps, and peeked around the curve of the shelves. 

The little Keeper was sitting on the floor of the library, his cream (and very dusty) robes forming a puddle over his feet. His wings were visible, one stretched along the row of books at his back and bending primaries against the row of leather books he rested up against. The other was cast across his lap like a blanket, feathers spanning in a graceful arch. Somehow he had managed to get his feathers dusty as well, the white feathers speckled with grey. The Keeper was engrossed. His head rested against the bookshelf holding his wing and he held a book in one hand, the other propping his head up in an attentive manner. In a small untidy pile in front of him there were more books, some with more bookmarks visible in-between the pages. 

Crowley didn’t dare to breath, not that he particularly had to. Now that he was frozen in place looking at the Keeper he was suddenly exceptionally aware of where his feet were, the rustle of his blue robes against the bookshelves, the thudding inside his chest. He cautiously repositioned himself away, drawing back from the edge of the bookshelf. 

Now that he was here, he cursed himself for doing before thinking. What exactly was he planning to do now? The angel clearly wasn’t in any trouble, foolish fantasies of saving him immediately banished until dreamt up again later in private. Crowley’s ear pricked as around the corner he heard a page being turned in the silence of the library. There was a soft sigh as the angel continued to read, and Crowley closed his eyes and internally cursed himself. He wanted to watch the little Keeper sigh, wanted to see that soft expression of rapt attention as he devoured line after line of the words. Now that he was he here, finally, what was he going to do? 

Another noise behind the edge and Crowley bit his lip, indecision and curiosity warring inside of him to dare a little deeper, to look again. Despite everything, he edged forward gently, pressed up against the edge of the wooden bookcase and peering around the turn once again. 

The angel was smiling at the book now, his hand loosely curled in front of his face in pleasure as something described obvious enthralled him. He made the noise again - almost a whimper of pleasure, and his expression titled sweetly, his eyebrows lifting in an imploring gesture. 

“Oh!” he sighed, shoulders releasing in a wave of emotion. Crowley’s heart juddered painfully inside of him, seeing this outpouring of emotion. If such sweet emotion could be given over for just a book, apparently quite a good one, then how free and giving would this Keeper be for a fellow angel? A friend, perhaps. The concept of those soft eyes and little pleased whimpers were almost too much for Crowley to contemplate.

“Oh yes, finally,” he told the book quietly, a heaving sigh accompanying the praise, as if the book had just performed an action on request. Crowley knew then he was done for. No angel had ever spoken so softly and sweetly as the little Keeper had, the tone of his voice was so pleasing that Crowley knew he would never want to hear anyone else’s spoken to him unless it was this angel and this angel alone. To be worth the attention of that pleasure, to be given praise by that voice. 

It was altogether too much. 

Of course now was the moment that spoilt the moment for Crowley. The solemn chiming of the Dusk to Dawn bell rang through the library, sounding distantly muffled by the thousands of books but still unmistakable. The angel must have missed - or ignored - the call to end his day and now the evening was catching up with him. Crowley had pulled back as soon as the sound rang out, a jolt of surprise pulling him abruptly from his thoughts. He heard the angel gasp a little and suddenly a flurry of movement. Wings were rustled into appropriate places, trailing through dust and a fluffing of feathers. Robes rustled as the Keeper quickly got up, a mild noise of discomfort as he pulled his limbs from their position on the floor upright. The angel quickly put his latest book down and gathered the pile close to him, muttering under his breath. Crowley couldn’t hear what he was saying over the thudding in his ears, but very soon he heard the angel’s footsteps hurrying away in the opposite direction. 

Crowley waited another moment before peering once more, confirming that the space that had previously been host to an angel was now vacant. Only a disturbance in the dust of the shelves and a scrap of paper dropped from the pile of books he had taken with him remained. Crowley moved further out into the row, listening carefully incase the angel came back and quickly leaned to pick up the scrap of paper. 

More words, carefully written in ink. 

_ “I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.” _

Crowley smiled at the words and quickly retreated back into his hiding spot, although it really wasn’t much of a hiding spot now he was standing in another walkway of the library with no one to hide from. 

He listened carefully again for the little Keeper to return, but heard nothing. To stay would yield nothing, and there was the risk that he may be discovered and that would inevitably lead to questions, which required answers and, even worse, explanations. Still unable to piece together a sensible thought outside of soft ‘Oh!’ from the angel, he pocketed the scrap of paper and slipped away, back the way he had come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes:  
>  _Christopher Robin was sitting outside his door, putting on his Big Boots. As soon as he saw the Big Boots, Pooh knew that an Adventure was going to happen’_ \- A. A. Milne, in Winnie-the-Pooh (1926)
> 
> _“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”_ \- Jane Austin, Pride and Prejudice (1813).


	4. The Mural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley needs to up his spying game, so he gets some inspiration.

The incident of seeking out the little angel should have been a one off affair. 

It wasn’t. 

It became a frequent exercise in emotional torture for Crowley. Now, when he lurked upstairs looking for the angel, he would have to gamble on the appearance of the Keeper at all. Sometimes he would come out at the right time, following members of his duty. Sometimes he might only be a few minutes late. Sometimes he didn’t come at all. Crowley would wait and grind his teeth in anxiety hoping to catch sight of him before he was called away to his own work. The worry that he would miss the milk-coloured curls and furtive glances made him feel a kind of weariness that settled deep into his bones and drained all the enjoyment out of his day. When he did see the little angel his entire being seemed lifted up by it. There was a small part of him that knew it was foolish to hang so much longing onto another being like this, especially in this manner, but he was too far gone on the Keeper and his soft little ‘Oh!’ to be able to turn back now. Come what may, everything that was his was inextricably tied to what was the Keeper’s. 

And he didn’t even know his name. 

After several cycles of missing sight of the angel in the refectory, a resolution slowly started to form in his mind. At first it seemed ridiculous, but over time as the angel’s appearances to the hall became more and more unreliable, the idea became less ridiculous. 

He could do what he had done that day in the library. Go into those winding hallways and watch the angel from afar. More and more days saw the angel linger behind in the library, clearly to indulge in reading every book he was charged to care for, and Crowley saw no alternative than to move his spying spot to among the quiet shelves. 

The trouble was there was really nowhere to hide. The corridors and hallways were filled to every inch with shelves and books, they curved and branched out in every branch. Including all the way up, high enough that Crowley couldn’t quite see the ceiling in the dim suspended lights of the library. Even if there were a space for him to skulk up in the darkness he was keenly aware that that was altogether far too ridiculous an option to consider. 

Ruling out the literal stalking, what if he was spotted? How would he begin to explain it? The little Keeper wasn’t the only angel in the library and if Crowley intended to follow through his mad plan the way he did, he would be risking running into them as well. 

No, an alternative was crucial. 

He was skulking in his usual spot, arms crossed on the ledge and a stormy expression on his face. The Keeper had not appeared for the fourth day in a row and Crowley was getting impatient. He turned away from the hall, silently grumbling at the entire hall of angels below for not being the correct angel. Instead he stared at the mural of animals, letting his eyes shift sightlessly over the complicated interwoven paintings of plants, tree, flowers and creatures. His thoughts ruminated sluggishly, never straying far from the dull ache in his chest. 

To see without being seen. To watch without causing alarm. To exist in the same space and yet be not as he was. 

He flickered his gaze between the array of beasts staring back out at him. Large and small they filled the shape, horns and tails and hooves. His eyes refocused as he settled down near the paws of the large golden beast with the mane, seeing a tiny little animal with cupped front paws, large eyes and a little tail. He strained to read the words etched in gold next to it. 

**Mouse.**

An appealing little creation, it looked quick and intelligent. Crowley considered it, eyes narrowing as an idea slowly surfaced. It was possible for angels to manipulate their shape. This vessel wasn’t one made of skin and bone as the animals were. An angel’s true form was already condensed into this form, the wings committed to a different plane to accommodate the requirements of the Paradise She had made for them. Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he had released the boundaries of his current skin to be in his natural form, it was a lot simpler to be in a form that was so tactile and grounded to his environment. In theory he should be able to alter his vessel again, to condense himself down further into a form that could hide in plain sight, sneak through the bookcases and watch his angel without discovery. 

He could become an animal. 

His eyes lingered on the mouse for some time, considering the brown fur, the twitching whiskers. It wasn’t out of the question but something didn’t ring true for him considering the small thing. He stood and began to walk the edges of the upper mezzanine slowly, considering each animal in turn. Some were immediately dismissed - too large or too bulky or unsuited for the narrow spaces. Others were too colourful or had unnecessary additions - what use would a pair of antlers be in a library? 

He considered a creature called a cat for some time. It was agile and slim, with clever eyes and short fur. It would be an excellent form to climb and jump in, it’s paws perfect for soundless sneaking. Perhaps a touch too big still. 

He eyed a winged animal called a fruitbat for some time before dismissing it. The ability to fly might be novel, but he doubted it would prove that useful when clambering across the tops of books. Plus, this animal seems to spend it’s life upside down and he wished to watch his angel the right way up. 

This pattern repeated for some time before he came to a stop in front of an animal he would not have believed could exist if it weren’t for Her endless imagination. An animal with no legs at all, a long twisting body and tail. It’s head was streamlined to join with the body in one fluid shape. It appeared to have an unusual tongue, and eyes that reminded him of the cat from earlier. This animal was an unnecessary colour - a rather bright green, but that seemed to suit its surroundings. He was sure he could change that, maybe go for something that blended with the shadows a bit better. 

Yes, it would do nicely. With some imagination and a little Effort, Crowley would become a snake. 

  
  


Resolution is one thing, but action proved to be another. After Crowley had finished with his day of duties he retired to his room immediately. To change his form would mostly take time and concentration, and he knew he wouldn’t be disturbed once he started. 

Shedding his robes and loosening his red hair, he sat in the centre of his bed and closed his eyes. He drew his form into his focus, taking time to identify every part of this current form and it’s placement. He would need to be able to return to it easily, if he was going to be able to switch between them at will. He took care to memorise the ridges and lines that created his face, the line of his jaw and slope of his shoulders. The speckles of paint that had stained his skin over many years against pale skin. The narrow passage of his hips and the calluses on his fingers. Feeling further outside of his skin he was able to feel the joint that held his wings in the incorporeal plane. The knot of bone and cartilage that passed from intangibility into his shoulder blades would be of particular concern when changing, as it was held in the odd position of both existing and not existing at the same time. 

Tracing the shape of what he wished to become into the air in front of him, small fragments of light trailed from his fingertips to sketch out the shape and length of the snake. At first he recreated the one he had seen in the mural, but it became obvious that this snake would be too small for him to condense his essence into without discomfort. He would have to make alterations to the form, whilst still retaining the subtlety of the shape. He still needed to be slim enough to creep. One option was to extend the length of the snake, while thickening the middle to give the body the correct level of strength and muscle required to move himself. 

It occurred to him that there was a lot more engineering to create a physical form than he had initially expected, and that he should be even more in awe of Her divine imagination than he already was. 

It seemed like many hours passed as Crowley twisted and contorted himself, trying to find the correct ratio to pour himself into the framework. 

But finally, somehow, he had done it. He opened his eyes, the golden eyes of a large snake, and began to feel through this new form. Not having arms or legs was certainly an uncomfortable sensation, as he had to lift and move his head with his torso and neck, but his form moved smoothly. He looked at himself, pleased with the recreation of soft glittering scales that moved and writhed as he did. He had thought to adopt the blue of his robes, but instead he had darkened the tone until he had found a pleasing shade of smoky black that would wind into shadows seamlessly. Despite himself he had been unable to resist painting the underside of this form with the fiery red of his hair. Maybe it was pride, a form of vanity in something he knew set him apart from his peers. Maybe, should he be discovered, he wanted to worth looking at. 

If he couldn’t be himself, he would be the most beautiful snake. 

Crowley manipulated his muscular body across the room, experimenting with his new form. It was surprisingly pleasurable to slide through the sheets in such a way, surfaces feeling almost luxuriously soft against his scales. He twisted himself up into a coil, resting his head on his tail. He lifted himself up leading with his head, flicking his new forked tongue out in concentration. He found he could extend a very long way just by using the muscles along this body. 

A very clever design. He had picked well. 

He hissed to himself in pleasure. He would be the very best snake. He would creep into the library and he would be able to watch his charge in peace, observing from the shadows and following along sneakily as the Keeper went about his duties. Oh yes, he would be a very good sneak. 

_ “I am sssnake,”  _ he announced to the room. 


	5. The Snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley debuts his new form in the library, and gets more than he expected.

It had been a long time since Crowley could remember being this excited.

He had practised switching between his two legged form and his no legged form multiple times throughout the day, sacrificing his usual pleasure of sleep to slip between forms at will. It became easier with each transformation and very soon he felt as comfortable with no legs and a tail as he did with opposable thumbs. He enjoyed the hissing too, and the fact his jaw could unhinge in such a dramatic way - there was a certain flare for drama within this lithe form which he appreciated. 

When he finally felt ready to debut his disguise, he took extra caution not to be seen as he made his way through the downstairs hallways of rooms. He wasn’t usually even conscious at this time of day, let alone up and active. He kept his head down reaching the refectory hall and moved carefully to the library door. He was here even before the Dawn to Day shift were finished, wanting to be in position in the bookcases before the Keepers even arrived. Slipping into the darkened library, Crowley scowled as the small glowing orb above him gently hummed into life as he moved under it. Hopefully he wouldn’t set them off once hidden in his snake form, but that would be easy to find out. He closed his eyes and concentrated, casting his mind outside of his skin and pulling himself long, weaving his form into the long column of snake. It only took a minute or so this time to fully realise the form, his scales rippling as they laid into place. He blinked slowly, craning his neck upwards to stretch and test the limit of his body. Checking over the coils of black and red body proved satisfactory and he aimed further up, resting his chin on a layer of books at roughly shoulder height and hoisted himself up using a complicated arrangement of muscles. His body fit neatly into the gaps above the books and below the next shelf, and he was able to slot himself further in along the back wall of the bookcase than previously thought. He twisted upwards again, moving up until he was just above the reach of the small glowing lights, in an area he hoped would be obscured to anyone looking up, but a good vantage point to spy on. Up on these taller shelves the book sat away from the wall, creating a negative space behind them which was even better for hiding in. He moved along this passage cautiously, the dark a little harder to see through but his senses through the snake perception were strong and he didn’t bump his nose on anything hard or dusty. Reaching the inevitable barrier between bookcases he had assumed he would have to weave out and around as he went, but as luck would have it - or possibly some slight miracle - there were gaps going between the two cases as if someone had created little circular doorways at each junction. 

How fortunate. And how fortunate that they were exactly the correct size for his body to slip through unimpeded. A shiver of pleasure rippled through Crowley’s body as he lifted himself back onto the books, peering down into the waiting corridors. Now he could indulge himself without care. A sort of contentment washed over him as he settled down in his hiding spot, the glowing light under him now fading as the motion that had awakened it was lost. He was only a stone’s throw from the entrance to the library, and before the fork in the path so there was no way he would miss the Keeper. He heard the bell toll signalling the end of the Dawn shift, it’s solemn tone moving through Paradise as if unaffected by walls. Listening carefully, he heard the movement of angels leaving their duties and joining together again in the hall. The quiet hubbub of chatter and laughter almost covered up the thing Crowley wanted to hear most of all. Almost, but not entirely. The gentle patter of bare feet on stone floor. 

Even before the orb beneath him hummed into life and he spotted the soft curls he knew it was his angel. It made sense that the Keeper would be so keen to return to his duties after spending the night locked away with whichever book he had borrowed. The angel moved surprisingly quickly past him, Crowley’s heart leaping into his throat as he passed beneath him only a few feet away. It was the closest Crowley had ever been to him, and he rippled in pleasure again before setting off to follow him down the corridors. The angel moved quickly and Crowley was impeded by his motion through the bookcases, having to lift his head to check which direction the Keeper went in before following. He lost sight of the angel but could trace him using the sound of his feet and the rustling of his robes. When he caught up to him the angel was back in the same place he had found him last time, kneeling as he pushed the book he had freed from his robes back into place. 

“There we are,” he heard his gentle voice say. “Back home, with your friends,” 

The angel stayed kneeling and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. He marked something in ink before whisking it away. Turning on his heel he quickly moved back the way he had come and turned a corner, moving away from Crowley.

Crowley blinked slowly. He had not considered this. There was no obvious way to cross to the other side of the hallway, narrow as it was, and the angel was already gone out of sight. Crowley hissed in a low noise, frustrated. There must be a way across. He eyed the distance, his depth perception a little less trustworthy than in his other form. He could in theory change back and walk the single step across and change back again. This option annoyed him. Maybe he could simply reach? 

Using his tail as an anchor he experimentally pushed his head out into the open air. He listened again carefully but nothing happened. He kept extending inch by inch, aiming for the row of books directly opposite him. 

Not much further… 

There was a sudden lurch as the weight of his midsection toppled the series of books he had been resting on, and he slipped forward, his tail losing grip as he fell. He landed in a huddle, hitting his jaw on the stone floor with a solid whack and his body twisting on top of him, along with several heavy books. 

It hurt. A lot. Crowley hissed from the floor, feeling parts of him that did not understand which part of him they were complain. A noise from down the corridor and he stiffened, before quickly moving away from the books and shuffling inelegantly to hide in the lowest part of the bookshelf. Peering from over the lip of a particularly study set of leather bound volumes he watched as the angel returned to the source of the noise. Four books lay in a shamble on the floor, one sticking up at an odd angle with its pages all crumpled into the floor. Another had split its spine when it hit Crowley squarely in a coil that would have been somewhere near his elbow. 

The angel made a soft noise and knelt by the books, his quick hands righting them and gathering them up, smoothing down parchment pages and running his fingers across the covers to assess for tears. As he ran his thumb across the split spine it glowed gently, fibres reaching out and pulling themselves back together like they had never been apart. 

“Oh dear,” he said to himself, or to the books. 

He straightened so Crowley could only see his feet and then extended onto his toes as he strained to rehome the books. 

“How in Paradise…” 

The angel was muttering under his breath, as if scolding the books for their unintentional leap to the floor. Crowley watched, nudging his nose out a bit further from the bottom shelf, as the angel struggled to reach the high shelf. He almost snorted in amusement when the Keeper hitched his leg up and climbed the bookcase, the books placed in easy grabbing distance as he held onto the carved beam that edged the shelves. As he reached a piece of paper freed itself from the pocket of his robes and fluttered down towards Crowley. It slid close to him, settling just on the other side of the books. Crowley eyed it, glancing back up at the angel who was still carefully repositioning books, before slinking his head out of the shelf to try and pick up the paper. It proved a little more difficult than he anticipated but he managed to get a hold of it and pull it back into the shadows of the shelf just as the angel descended back to the ground. 

“First the tiny teapot, and now this. Strange days indeed,” muttered the angel to himself as he straightened his robes. Crowley watched him head back the way he had come, oblivious to Crowley’s snatching up of his note. Alone Crowley pulled it back into the shelf and rotated it with a careful manoeuvring of his nose. 

_ Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - _ E.D.

Crowley would have to hide this little note here, and come back for it later when he was ready to slip away. With that thought he quickly followed along after the Keeper, keeping to the shadows but mindful to try and keep up. 

It turned out the little Keeper was actually quite efficient, which was a mild surprise to Crowley, who sincerely believed the angel just hid himself away at every opportunity to ignore his duties and read. He quickly found that following the angel down every branching corridor and hallway was a considerable waste of effort, particularly when he had to find a way to change sides or even do some bizarre form of snake u-turn when the angel abruptly changed direction. 

Whilst he might not be getting any indulgent spying done, he was definitely learning a lot about the little Keeper. Despite his short stature the angel was surprisingly quick on his feet, rushing about in quite a frenzy as he performed seemingly endless duties. He worked alone, occasionally passing by another Keeper who would hand him a pile of books or an assortment of parchments to be rolled up and stored away in drawers that seemed randomly scattered throughout the library. No matter what he was tasked with, how many books he carried, the angel always seemed to know exactly where he was going, which bookshelf the book belonged in, slotted in to fit perfectly. There were no markers anywhere to even ground them in a single place, and Crowley didn’t understand how the angel kept his bearings as he flurried through the shelves completely focussed on his tasks. 

Had Crowley been blessed with a little less stamina and a little more sloth, he would have probably curled up and gone to sleep, waiting until the Keeper wore himself out and went back to his endearing habit of bending the rules. In Crowley’s favour was another delightful fact he learned about the angel. He talked to himself. He talked to the books. He talked to the lights above them. He even talked to his own robes when they got tangled in his feet. Not just that, but when he had nothing to say he hadn’t already said, he  _ hummed.  _

This small fact stayed in Crowley’s chest and glowed like a small treasure, hanging on every muttered word and gentle sigh and the intermittent but wonderful sound of humming. Soft melodies that lilted and flurried along much like the angel himself. They danced a merry jig through the air from the angel to where Crowley lay hiding in the shadows, looking up towards the angel with a halo of light illuminating his hair and cheerfully ticking off books from an absurdly long list. 

Crowley could listen to his angel hum his songs all day, and all night, and all through the next one too. 

There was music in Paradise, sometimes a bit too much of it when She was in the mood, but it wasn’t like this. This was unstudied and unlabourious and so gentle in comparison to a thousand trumpets matching with two thousand harps, angels lined up in rows to belt out the same celestial harmonies over and over. This was spontaneous and imperfect, with a softness Crowley wanted to wrap himself in. 

“Oh piss it,” came a sudden outburst, cutting off the music. Crowley almost laughed out loud, his tongue flicking out rapidly as he watched the angel frown at the book he had been mending with that golden glow of his thumb. The little Keeper turned his thumb to the side, a small flash of crimson on the pad before he stuck it into his mouth with a small frown on his face. Not angry, more hurt and disappointed that the book he was still lovingly holding had dared to give him a papercut. 

“You foul thing,” scolded the angel, removing his completely fine thumb from his mouth. He took another look at his skin, as if the mark somehow remained, and sighed heavily before switching to his other hand to continue the golden healing light. 

Once finished, he placed the book carefully at the top of the stack of books by his side and shifted backwards, stretching his back whilst relaxing against the side of the bookcase he sat against. He was resting a hand on the next book to be Kept, and staring a little absentmindedly at his own thumb as it rested in his lap. Heaving what seemed like an enormous sigh for such a small angel, he lifted his gaze and stared at nothing as his eyes clouded a little. Crowley could see his face properly, for the first time since he had first noticed him. They were mere feet apart, the angel sitting alone on the stone floor with such a tired expression on his face, and Crowley hiding in the shadows. 

Crowley found himself moving forward by the smallest fraction of measurements, soaking up every detail of his angel’s face. A soft face made softer by the unruly white hair that curled around it, looking as delicate as lamb’s wool. His skin was as pale as his robes, all of him appearing as if some hazy daydream. Only the slight pink of his lips and the colour of his eyes seemed to stand out from delicate colour palette. Blue eyes. Soft eyes, ringed with flecks of ice and gold. Eyes framed in lines that spoke of a thousand emotions played out on the theatre of his expressive face - smiling and laughing and wincing and weeping, all wound up together in the little Keeper’s face, so utterly devoted to the stories he guarded. 

If Crowley were feeling bold he could move forward a little more, let the light travel along the ridge of his nose and his golden eyes would draw the attention of those icy blue eyes. He would take his attention for his own and keep it close, focusing only on himself. Maybe he would speak to him. To hear his words spoken only for Crowley.

“Oh, _there_ you are,” 

Crowley hissed in surprise, drawing back against the back of the bookcase as the Keeper jumped, his hand knocking the book from his stack. Another angel was at his side, having apparently come from somewhere else in the library, and Crowley already hated them. 

“Oh, Paschar, hello,” 

The little Keeper didn’t sound particularly happy to be approached. There was a slightly guarded tone to his voice that Crowley only noticed from spending several hours cataloguing how he spoke to the books when he was alone (or at least thought he was ). 

Paschar wasn’t a Keeper. He was one of the Speakers of the Word, a small band of angels that had a lot to say about themselves whilst they went about doing their Speaking. Crowley spent a good portion of existence avoiding the Speakers, and a good few other of the ‘inner circle’ lot, as much as possible. Paschar was standing above the Keeper, somehow a little too close, and Crowley eyed his ankles from his vantage point of the floor. 

“Why are you sitting,” Paschar gestured vaguely with a finger at the Keeper and his two piles of books, his long list spilling out of his lap onto the floor, “like this?”

The Keeper glanced down, frowning as if the question was entirely stupid (it was).

“I’m Keeping.” he said shortly, as if it were obvious (it was.) “What do you… want?” he trailed a little in the middle, looking back up with an expression that hoped for something short and easy to answer (it wasn’t.).

“There are Words to be Spoken, and what is Spoken must be Written, and what is Written must be Kept,” intoned Paschar, with the same kind of loud pompous voice that came directly from the diaphragm with very little self-awareness. The Keeper blinked, only a small drop on one side of his polite smile revealing his disappointment. 

“Oh, I see. Must be Written. Of course,” he said, looking back at his comfortable little spot. He paused, looking up again with a slight hopeful lifting of the eyebrows. “I don’t suppose Tabbris…?”

“Tabbris is occupied in Heaven’s many duties. Your presence is required so that the Words that are Spoken, may be Written, so they may be-”

“Kept, yes, of course,” the Keeper interrupted, looking like he’d must rather be doing anything other than Writing the Words that must be Spoken. He looked down at his books, carefully picking the knocked one up and placing it on the pile again. “Um, when would She-”

“Now is the time for Writing, so Now is when you must come,” intoned Paschar, a tone of impatience creeping in. 

“Alright, of course, now,” agreed the angel, finally moving to roll up his list and put away his ink. 

“Leave these things, the time is Now, so Now is when you must come,”

Unseen by Paschar, Crowley watched the Keeper roll his eyes in an exasperated motion of someone endlessly bothered by other people, before turning and climbing to his feet without a single ounce of enthusiasm.

“Yes, well, lead the way Now and I will follow,” 

There was a beat of silence, and Paschar, visibly annoyed by the Keeper mirroring his tone but unsure as to what exactly annoyed him about it, turned on one heel and began a sort of march away, his shoulders stiff and grey robes trailing behind him anticlimactically. The Keeper sighed, turned to the pile of books and offered his hands to them in a placating manner. 

“Stay here. I’ll be right back, I promise,” he told them, with so much tenderness that Crowley could have laughed again, delighted by this whole affair. 

“Aziraphale!” called Paschar’s voice again, irritation clear. 

The Keeper sighed again, rolled his eyes once more in a motion that seemed to travel through his entire body and turned to follow the Speaker away. 

Crowley, in his little hiding spot, could have rolled over on his back and giggled out of every single emotion - he could barely contain himself. This first visit had been everything he could ever have hoped for, ever have dreamed! His Keeper talked to books as well as reading them. He hummed as he worked. He had blue eyes that shone like the stars Crowley painted. He had a name! He hissed happily as he let the name permeate through him, sweet and smooth like the finest of wines. 

“ _ Azzziraphale _ ,” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes:  
>  _Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul_ \- Emily Dickinson [1861]


	6. The Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley dozes off, which is both a curse and, it turns out, a blessing.

Crowley waited quite a long time for the angel to reappear. 

He understood what had transpired, Paschar was one of the Speakers of the Word who worked with Metatron and relayed all of Her words and instructions to the rest of them. There was a certain level of smugness that accompanied this passing on of instructions, one that Crowley found more amusing than irritating; unless, of course, that smugness was being aimed at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale! 

Even just thinking of his name was a pleasure akin to sleeping in a patch of sunlight. He liked the way it rolled off his tongue, somehow capturing the combination of diffidence and the anomalistic glint Crowley had witnessed in snatches from the little Keeper. 

Still full of pleasure at his find, Crowley eyed the leftover belongings from the angel. There were two piles of books - one of books needing mending, and another of freshly mended books ready to be rehomed, or more likely read through and then rehomed. The long list that Aziraphale habitually kept on his knee during his work was left unfolded and scattered, one of the wooden scroll ends rolling off a little ways. His ink pot and pen were also left, one without a cap and the other with ink still drying. Crowley looked either way down the corridor and listened carefully, but heard nothing. He hadn’t seen any other Keepers since he had entered the library. He had heard one, maybe, down a corridor while stalking Aziraphale but he had yet to see another. Moving with caution he poured himself over the edge of the books and out into the open, moving towards the books. He read the titles, tilting his head to the side to do so. Apparently once the Earth was going to be finished and filled with humans, they were going to have some sort of system called ‘Law’ to help them with disputes, and it was these extensive volumes that the Keeper - no, not just the Keeper, Aziraphale - had been working his way through. 

A little disappointed, Crowley ignored the books and looked at the list. It seemed very long, almost too long to be practical. On it were thousands of book titles copied out in steady tiny handwriting. Descending from the top of the list the titles were crossed out. Looking at the next handful waiting to be crossed out, the titles had nothing to do with the books Aziraphale had been working through. 

Crowley didn’t really know what to make of that. 

There wasn’t much to look at left here, and Crowley could feel himself getting bored without an angel to stare at. Huffing to himself again, he crossed over and slid himself up the first few shelves, finding himself a spot so that when Aziraphale returned and sat back down, Crowley would be directly in line with the pink lobes of his ears. 

He truly was a self indulgent creature. He had already created a form, invaded the library space, gained the sound of the angel’s voice and - most dearly - the angel’s name for himself, and yet here he was wanting more. Always, wanting more. If he could get close enough to Aziraphale’s vessel he might be able to catch his scent. 

Yes, Crowley really was a glutton. 

Resting his head along the pages of a slightly less dusty volume of something called ‘Bird Law’, Crowley sighed heavily and let his mind wander as he waited in the slowly darkening hallway. He hoped whatever needing Writing wouldn’t be too long. Aziraphale had promised the books he would return, and whether the books were aware or not, Crowley was certain that he would. He would just have to wait… and be patient… ever so patient. 

Sighing again, his eyelids dropped as the glowing light above them ebbed away. His body coiled in between the shelf and the books in such a way as to create his own pillow, and to nestle into a surprisingly comfortable arrangement of snake. It wouldn’t hurt to have a short nap, he was sure. He would hear Aziraphale’s return. He was just resting his eyes. After all, he was usually asleep at this time, having stayed up the entire Dawn and Day shift to indulge his spying. 

Just a short nap… 

Crowley wasn’t sure what woke him first: the light, the sound of approaching footsteps, or the painful lump digging into his thigh. Wait, his thigh?

Eyes snapping open he cursed to himself, suddenly very aware of his arrangement of arms and legs and bones all squished into various parts of the long shelf. The books that had created a rather nice ledge to rest his head on had been unceremoniously shoved onto the floor when he had slipped back into his two legged form. The light above him was glowing strong, and he felt another pang of alarm run through him as the footsteps grew closer. He wriggled, trying to untangle himself from himself, as well as unwedge himself from the narrow, and surprisingly deep, shelf. 

It all happened very quickly - Crowley gave an almighty thrust against the back of the shelf to free himself, just as the panic in his brain short wired and stretched him long again, crashing to the floor in a heap of scaled coils and sore patches, just as the bare feet of the Keeper turned the corner of the corridor. 

Crowley didn’t look, he didn’t need to look, he simply slithered as quick as he could back into the darkness of the lowest shelf, pulling his confused and aching form behind him. 

He laid himself as low as he could, hiding behind the heavy books and closing his eyes, a little voice in his head whispering to be invisible. The angel’s feet had slowed but not stopped, and he could hear his breathing close by. He heard the rustle of robes as the angel knelt and began carefully picking up the books Crowley’s ill-timed transformation and fall had displaced. 

Crowley held his breath. He counted the seconds as they passed, the sound of steady hands and bruised pages the only thing in the suddenly deafening silence. 

The Keeper slid the last book back into place, his hands tracing the leather bound spines carefully. 

“There we are,” he sighed, his voice so soft Crowley almost missed it. The angel sat down, moving his list and inkpot to find the most comfortable part of the stone floor. There was another moment of silence. The angel made a small noise with his tongue as he noted the dry ink on his pen, replacing the cap on his inkpot. 

Crowley didn’t dare move. 

It seemed to last forever. 

“I know you’re there,” 

An immediate flash of panic. Crowley squeezed himself further down into the wooden shelf, trying to flatten himself as if hiding like this was still an option. The angel didn’t sound angry. He was angled away from Crowley, his head turned to speak softly over his shoulder. “It’s ok,”

Crowley’s tongue flicked out of his mouth, tasting the air carefully. He didn’t move. 

A beat of silence passed. 

The angel moved carefully, twisting his body towards the bookshelf. 

“You don’t have to be scared of me, if you are,” 

His voice was so gentle. Crowley felt himself soften to it, hearing that lyrical voice ease over his words in such a careful manner. The angel moved again, deliberate and slow as he lowered himself to the floor. Crowley could hear the puff of breath squeezed out of him as he bent towards the shelf. 

“Let me see you, little thing,” came the voice again. Crowley couldn’t move. He felt something warm and sharp inside his chest, caught somewhere between exhilaration and sickening dread. How in Paradise was he even to begin explaining this? 

One of the books by Crowley’s head twitched, causing all logical thought to exit Crowley’s brain. He watched as the book was slowly pulled free, light spilling from behind it as a hand moved to remove another, and then another. Crowley stayed frozen, the light almost overwhelming him as the Keeper - Arizaphale - bent his head to look inside. 

Such blue eyes. 

Blue eyes that crinkled into a soft smile. The angel crossed his arms over themselves and rested his chin on them, and smiling at Crowley like he was pleased to find him there. Crowley’s tongue flicked out again, and was rewarded by a new scent that differed from the books and the dust. A warm scent with hints of full bodied sweetness, and more that Crowley couldn’t identify. Crowley’s tongue flicked again, immediately wanting more of it. Arizaphale’s smile widened as his eyes focused on Crowley’s tongue. 

“Oh, how marvellous,” he said gently. “What a lovely tongue you have, little thing,” he said so softly. 

If a coherent thought had managed to pass through Crowley’s head, it would have short circuited him all over again. 

“Won’t you come out into the light? I would so like to see you,” 

Aziraphale’s eyebrows tinged up in the middle with this request, a look of sincerity on his entire face. Crowley found himself moving his head forward before he knew he was doing it, his gaze fixed on the sky blue eyes that tracked his movement with delight. 

“Oh, look at you! What beautiful golden eyes you have,” 

The angel’s smile broke into a grin, the crinkles around his eyes growing deeper and Crowley blinked steadily, overcome. They stayed there for a moment in time, face to face. Aziraphale just smiled at him, his eyes flicking from the cascade of scales along his neck, to his golden eyes, to his flicking tongue, and he looked as if he’d never seen anything so unique. Crowley felt a feeling well up inside him, caught between pride and devotion as he himself was caught in the angel’s glowing attention. 

He had dreamed of what this moment would have been like, and yet his imagination had failed him entirely. 

“I think I know what you are, little thing. I’ve read about you, I’m sure.” Aziraphale told him. “Would you like to come out so I can see all of you? I might be wrong, I suppose it depends entirely on your legs - or lack of them, possibly,” 

Crowley blinked slowly, and began to slide his body out of the shadows. Any leftover tinges of discomfort or pain were washed away by the Keeper’s attention. Aziraphale moved back up from the floor, his robes in a terrible state from the floor, but he didn’t seem to notice as he took in all of Crowley’s long glittering body. His mouth was open in an expression of surprise and wonder, like he’d been handed something so entirely precious. Crowley felt more beautiful than every star in the Heavens. 

“Oh!” 

That one little syllable made Crowley feel like he was overflowing. 

“You are beautiful!”

Aziraphale suddenly moved to get up, holding his hands in such a way as he had with the pile of books by them. 

“Don’t move, let me go get- you stay there, beautiful little thing!” 

Crowley blinked again as Aziraphale got to his feet, tripping only once on his robes. The angel seemed swift with excitement, looking back at him with the same big grin on his face. “Don’t go anywhere!” 

Crowley watched the angel almost run to get something. The shock of discovery and pleasure of admiration were both wearing off a little, letting conscious thoughts return to Crowley. He had been discovered, sure, but he had never expected such a wonderful outcome. The Keeper didn’t seem to realise he was an angel in a tertiary form. He must not have seen Crowley’s embarrassing exit from the bookshelf in his limbed form, only the failed escape back into the bookcase. 

More than that, the Keeper seemed absolutely delighted with this discovery. He had yet to question why there was a snake in the library, which was probably for the best. 

Very soon he heard the angel return, still hurrying, only this time he was carrying a large book in his arms. Sitting back down with Crowley in front of him, he placed it down on the floor and opened it, his eyes quickly scanning the page with one finger running down a long list, before making a noise with his tongue and began rifling through pages. 

“Ah! Here we are,” he said finally, looking up at Crowley expectantly. He pointed to the page, which was upside down from Crowley’s perspective. “Snake, of the suborder Serpentes,”

The angel began to read from the book, Crowley moving to the side and tilting his head to follow the angel’s voice along on the page. The angel’s voice took on an airy tone as he read, as if savouring the words. 

“Snakes are elongated, legless, carnivorous reptiles of the suborder Serpentes. Like all other squamates, snakes are ectothermic, amniote vertebrates covered in overlapping scales. Many species of snakes have skulls with several more joints than their lizard ancestors, enabling them to swallow prey much larger than their heads with their highly mobile jaws.” 

Crowley wanted to follow along with the words, but he found his gaze wandering back up to look at the angel’s face as he read, something about the calmness from his words flowed through every one of his glittering scales. 

“It’s fascinating stuff, what a clever creature you are! Although I will have to look up what ‘amniote’ is, it sounds very biological,” the angel had turned his bright gaze back towards Crowley with another smile. They stayed like that for a moment, and then Aziraphale grinned again. 

“Oh, we should look up what species you are! Did you know that many of the Animals are going to have dozens of varieties of themselves? It’s astounding, She really has thought of everything,” Aziraphale told Crowley as he turned his attention back to the book. He flicked a few pages and then pointed again to a picture of a mottled brown version of Crowley. 

“See, here, this is one of your many, many siblings - an Adder! Oh, and there’s a lot of different Adders too, it seems. Shall we try and find your name in here?” 

Crowley looked up from the picture of a coiled snake looking rather cross and found the angel’s face smiling down at him so sweetly. Crowley could have melted in the wake of that gaze. 

They sat there for some time, with Aziraphale reading the name of each snake in turn, admiring each picture closely, and laughing at some of the names. 

“Oh, look at this one! What a marvellous name Beolen python is!” Aziraphale said, tracing the snake with one finger. “Oh, and this one - An Eastern Hognose snake! Look at those splendid markings.”

Crowley looked at the snake, agreeing that the markings were indeed very splendid, and suddenly wondering if he should have made more of an effort. 

“I haven’t seen any yet that even come close to your wonderful colour, little thing.” Aziraphale said absentmindedly, turning the page. “The red-bellied one maybe, but your scales do catch the light in such a beautiful way - like you have every colour hiding inside all that lovely black,” 

Crowley could have purred, suddenly very aware that none of the pictured snakes could hold a candle to his form. 

“Oh, here we go!” 

Crowley swallowed his pride as he looked at the page. A large black snake with touches of iridescent blue and gold that caught the light. It was close, he supposed with a sullen flick of his tongue. 

“A D’Albertis python, what a lovely name. Oh, it says here white-lipped, but I do think your scarlet suits you very well, such a wonderful array of colours,” 

Crowley froze as his felt a finger trace at the underside of his jaw gently. He looked up again towards the angel, hoping that the small trace of warmth would stay present as the angel looked at his crimson belly. The tiny moment of contact hummed through his skin like pure light, indescribable. Crowley wanted to lean into that touch more than he had ever wanted anything in his existence. He yearned for it. 

“You are entirely a perfect creation, little thing,” smiled the angel. “You should be very proud,” 

Crowley was, if only because Aziraphale told him so. 

“I suppose you’re here because of the mice. After all, a clever creation like you can’t be kept cooped up in the workshops, much more interesting places to be,” 

The book was shut now, and Crowley moved up onto it and slithered into a circular coil, resting his head on his tail to look upwards at the angel who looked down at him, still with that wonderful smile. 

“I am so happy to have found you, little thing,” 

Crowley felt a shiver of happiness pass through him.

_ Please _ ,  _ keep me. _


	7. The Bandstand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale explore the library together, and find somewhere very surprising together.

Crowley may have been in Paradise for his entire existence, but he now knew what true Heaven was. Forget the celestial harmonies and soaring on wings made from stardust - that was nothing compared to the perpetual state of joy he lived in every minute he was in Aziraphale’s presence. 

The pattern that developed over them was one of simple and lovely domesticities, with only a few less than ideal details such as Crowley’s sneaking into the library every Dawn to hide himself away under the shelf of Law to wait for Aziraphale. His little nest becoming more layered with love notes and scraps of paper every day, stolen from Aziraphale when the opportunity rose. He would wait for the Keeper to appear before coming out to greet him, lifting his head up towards the light haloing Aziraphale’s messy hair in a small welcoming gesture. Aziraphale - without fail - was always pleased to greet his little thing, smiling brightly as he asked the question:

“So, little thing, where are we going today?”

This question was, like many of the questions and praises that came from Aziraphale, of course the cleverest and best thing Crowley had ever heard. And even when there were so many wonderful and marvellous things to share in the books Aziraphale pulled out for them, Crowley always was politely informed that he was, in fact, the cleverest and best little thing of them all. 

Aziraphale would lead them down the corridor, Crowley keeping in step just behind or to the side of the angel, sometimes zigzagging in front of his feet in an annoying manner designed to make the angel fumble his footing and scold the snake. Even Aziraphale’s scolding was brilliant. They would find themselves a comfortable patch of floor, Aziraphale pulling his list from his robe and pursuing it before running his finger across many spines, ticking off titles until he found the one he desired for that day. 

It was always different, they jumped between categories like skipping stones. 

_ The Complex and Full Understanding of the Language of Insects _

_ How Birds Fly: An Illustrated Book _

_ Volcanoes: How and **Why?!** _

There was seemingly never-ending topics that deserved Aziraphale’s attention. His descent into each book was both thorough and completely flippant, marvelling at the complexities and engineering of Her designs, and yet laughing at the ridiculous unnecessaries of it all. 

“Oh, how marvellous!” seemed to spill from Aziraphale with every page. 

They would sit together, Crowley curled up on a shelf edge adjacent to Aziraphale’s shoulder, his tail coiled under him to allow him to lounge and occasionally flick his tongue out to reunite himself with the scent of the Keeper. 

This pleasant picture was made even better for the indulgent Crowley - for Aziraphale loved to read aloud, pulling all of the best bits to tell to Crowley, turning to meet his golden eyes with his own blue ones wide with delight. 

“Oh, imagine that, gigantic underwater mammals that blow plumes of air! They’re going to sing, can you believe that, little thing? Oh, how wonderful - of course they should sing, they would have so much to say about the ocean. I can’t wait to see it, you know, I’ve read so much,”

Aziraphale really did have an endless hunger for words, he devoured pages seemingly without metaphorical breath. Sometimes he would get so wrapped up in the pages he would almost forget Crowley was even there. Almost - because even if his eyes clouded over and his mouth stayed open in a little expression of wonder, he would always pull himself out of it to reunite his eyes with Crowley’s and smile deeply, and then tell him what he had just read. 

They spent many wonderful days traipsing through the Sciences and Natural World section of the library - not that it was properly labelled in any sensible fashion. Aziraphale had so much enjoyed looking through the vast book of reptiles with Crowley that he continued to compare every animal to Crowley, and Crowley was delighted to always come out the victor. 

While Crowley was always happy to follow along with the Keeper where ever he decided they would go, there came a day when Aziraphale politely - but firmly - insisted that his companion pick their destination. 

“After all, you’ve had to sit through me going on about stick insects for the last two days, so it’s probably best I don’t pick,” said the angel tartly to himself. 

Crowley could see the logic in this; the stick insects had been rather dull. 

He set off in a direction he was faintly familiar with, curving through the stacks of books with a confident sense of purpose, or at least what he hoped was translated as a confident sense of purpose. Aziraphale followed quickly behind, and when they reached a fork Crowley stopped to lift his head and peer down each row in turn, before turning upwards towards Aziraphale. 

“Oh,” said the angel, seeing the questioning tilt to Crowley’s head. “Left for Natural Sciences, right for Physical Sciences,” 

Crowley set off left, although he still had no idea how Aziraphale knew which was which, particularly as whenever it was his turn to lead he seemed to just amble along and choose directions at will. 

Another fork, another tilt of the head. 

“Left for Biology and right for Chemistry,” 

Another left, and off they went. This continued for some time, with several more forks to choose between before Aziraphale broke the pattern. 

“Um, I’m not sure if I mentioned this…” he started, watching as Crowley considered a choice between Bacteria and Eukarya. Crowley looked up, twisting himself to meet the angel’s gaze who was fidgeting with his hands in front of his robes. “The choices are created by the chooser, if that makes sense,” he told Crowley quickly. “You just have to think of what you want to read and the library will lead you there,”

Crowley wasn’t sure what the expressional range of a snake was, but it was clearly obvious enough to Aziraphale when he met his gaze and took in what was probably closest to an exasperated eye roll. The angel’s eyebrows tilted down in that little pout and he moved his hands towards Crowley in a placating manner. 

“I’m sorry, little thing, I didn’t think to explain, stupid of me really but-”

Crowley interrupted the angel by flicking his tongue playfully and winding once around Aziraphale’s ankles, letting his body brush against his robes in a manner designed to communicate that no harm had been done before he set off with a more confident manner, goal clearly held in his mind. He could hear Aziraphale’s footsteps behind him; he didn’t need to look back to know his friend was still with him. 

Very soon there began changes around them. The light seemed to change around them, becoming brighter as the orbs ceased being useful. The roof above them became visible, with slanted glass panels separated by green painted metal bars criss-crossing downwards to meet the shelves as the warm strong light filled the library. 

_ Sunlight _ , thought Crowley,  _ late afternoon sunlight _ , thinking back to the team meetings about the Sun and the arguments about how big it really needed to be, and surely, if it were too far away, no one would ever hear it. 

The books here were exactly what Crowley wanted, skimming through title after title, nosing his way through the shelves as Aziraphale followed closely behind him. Reading so close to the stacks his nose bumped into something that created a tickle and he pulled back with surprise. A long trailing green vine hung down, the tips of his tendrils moving after coming into contact with Crowley’s nose. He followed them up, seeing the little round baubles of the plant trace all the way up to a hanging basket suspended from the roof. He moved forward again, trailing his nose up and through the plant, using his body to clamber up the shelves in a rather inelegant way to reach his goal. 

The titles up here by the basket were much more interesting to Crowley than the stick insects. He found one that met his interest, and used his tail to tip it free of the shelf, sending it down where Aziraphale caught it with a puff of air and turned it in his hands.

“‘ _ Succulents and You: Live your best life with plants you can’t kill’ _ ” he read, an eyebrow raising gently, before looking up to meet Crowley’s eyes and run a hand through the trailing plant in front of him. “How curious. Do you think it’s thirsty?”

They continued further into the shelves, with Crowley navigating the taller shelves to read the titles of books he dropped down to Aziraphale and to discover more tropical plants that burst out from the shelves and from baskets to fill the air above them, greedily reaching for the sun. The air grew hot and moist, something Crowley’s snake form found very comfortable against his skin. Below him Aziraphale dutifully caught each book - albeit with a scandalised gasp at having to catch them at all - and carried them in a small stack that grew larger with each passing minute. 

“Little thing, I think we have enough now,” said Aziraphale firmly, the books coming up to just under his chin. He needed both hands to hold them steady, using his chin to keep them close. Reluctantly Crowley abandoned the brilliant purple and green plant he had been investigating and returned to the floor to join Aziraphale in a well chosen spot in the sunlight. Aziraphale’s hair glowed even brighter with the light falling off him, his robes still dazzling despite the dust. Aziraphale spread out the books Crowley had picked, and they spent the afternoon flipping through the pages and all of the splendid pictures. Aziraphale read the descriptions of the plants they had already encountered to Crowley as they flipped through to find each one’s twin within the books. 

“Oh, see here, little thing - that first one you loved is  _ Curio rowleyanus _ , known as string of pearls - why, how clever! Do you remember we read about pearls in that one book, something to do with shelled mollusks? Such a beautiful thing to come from such an assuming little creation,” mused the angel, trailing his finger down the pictured string of pearls. 

“Oh, and here’s that lovely purple thing -  _ Tradescantia pallida _ , better known as Wandering Jew. What an unusual name, I wonder where that name came from - you know, we should go to the Etymology section one day, there’s quite a funny story behind how  _ Inocybe eutheles _ got its name, because apparently it looks quite like a ‘nice set of tits’ - although I’m not sure how birds fit into mycology…”

Crowley wasn’t listening properly, something had caught his attention. He lifted his head from his usual sleepy coil atop his little pillar of discarded books and turned to look further down the hall. The plants seemed to grow thicker the further in he looked, obscuring the view as they fought for the sun, but he was certain he heard something. 

Aziraphale didn’t look up as Crowley unwound himself and set off down the hallway, flicking his tongue in curiosity. The books here were hidden by thick bushy ferns and vibrant strikes of colour from plants that looked like blades or bursts of sparks, the ground giving way from stone to wooden planks with grass peeking up from each seam. As he slid over them it tickled the sides of his belly. Somewhere behind him he heard Aziraphale call for him, suddenly aware he was alone and reading only to the plants, which made sense as the plants probably enjoyed being read to. 

It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to catch up with Crowley, but the angel’s path was impeded by the thick foliage that choked the path. He spluttered as a fern brushed across his face, using his hands to weave through trailing vines and move aside brilliant orange flowers that swayed precariously on narrow stems in between the wide branching leaves. 

“Now this really isn’t ideal for a library,” Crowley heard Aziraphale mutter. “This moisture really can’t be good for the pages…”

But they pushed on, Crowley able to weave a swift path in between the plants as Aziraphale followed him at a more sabotaged pace, untangling his wings with limited success. There was definitely something ahead of them, a series of noises he couldn’t identify. His curiosity gripped him tightly and he slithered on, pausing only occasionally to let Aziraphale catch up with him before diving forward again. 

“Slow down, little thing, I don’t want to lose you!” lamented the angel, spluttering as a hanging tendril of something ended up in his face. Crowley would have felt a pang of guilt, twisting back to look over his shoulder, except suddenly the wooden floor gave our underneath him and he tumbled. 

“Oh! Oh my!” 

Crowley recovered from his blunder quickly, and looked back to where he and Aziraphale - now emerging from the thicket - had found themselves. It was a wide circular space with a small series of steps descending down, the same steps Crowley was now inelegantly sprawled across. The bookcases had halted, and lined the entire circular space offering dozens of networked bookshelves leading in different directions. The glass ceiling lifted, forming a beautiful domed ceiling which glowed with sunlight. Instead of books, plants burst from every open space around them, the colours and shapes changing with each quadrant. Some Crowley knew from his trips to the greenhouses. Roses in every colour, their curled petals hiding thorns. Dazzlingly buoyant dahlias which swayed against the breeze. Sunflowers lifting their vibrant faces upwards. Dozens of flowers, the colours are mixing into a glorious frenzy of life. 

“Oh, what a special place,” Aziraphale whispered, his hands raised to cover his mouth in delight. “Oh, what a place you have found, little thing!” 

Descending the steps they found themselves in the middle of the space, which housed a small building in its centre, with tall blue metal archways holding up a slanted roof, rather pointless little fences bracketing in half of it either side. 

“I’ve seen pictures of these,” Crowley heard Aziraphale murmur as he climbed the step into the space, stepping into the cool shade. “Although they usually have a lot of people with these rather wonderful looking devices called ‘instruments’. You know, there’s one that looks absolutely splendid - apparently makes such a fun noise, it even has a funny name to say: tuba. Tu-ba. Too-baa… or maybe it’s tub-aa,”

Crowley snorted through his nose at these musings from the angel, who was absentmindedly tracing his fingers across the decorative metal railings and casting his eyes around in wonder at the garden they found themselves in. 

There was that noise again: something shifting within the quiet space. He wound his way up the edge of the pillar of the bandstand and cast his golden eyes around, trying to find the source. Aziraphale came to stand next to him, before finding himself a spot to sit on the steps and leaned his elbows on his knees, hands cupping his jaw as he sighed happily. 

“This truly is wonderful,” he said softly, before turning his face towards Crowley. Feeling eyes on him, Crowley turned his head back and was once again struck with the feeling of melting ice in his chest, seeing the Keeper’s kind face looking directly at him and smiling like that. Smiling that he was the single best thing to exist in Her imagination. Which, of course, was ridiculous, because clearly Aziraphale and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners was the single best thing in existence. The crinkles and those lovely blue eyes which somehow managed to sparkle brighter than any star. 

Aziraphale’s eyes slid from Crowley’s own, and looking past him with a widening look of surprise and excitement. 

“Oh!” he exclaimed softly. “Oh, little thing!” 

Aziraphale was whispering now, his eyes glued on what he saw, but his hands reaching towards Crowley and his thick body woven around the bandstand pillar. 

“Quickly, come here,” he whispered, wringing his hands gently, as if to indicate haste but also to stop moving entirely. Crowley blinked and began to turn his head to see what the angel was looking at, but froze when he felt warm fingertips press on the side of his neck lightly. 

“No, don’t, please, just come here,” whispered Aziraphale urgently. Crowley leaned into the slight press of fingertips and chased the warmth as they withdrew, moving towards Aziraphale without even realising he was doing so. Aziraphale opened out his wings, casting them out as to create a sheltered space beneath them, fluffing out to expel the remnants of dust and a few errant leaves that had been snatched up on their entrance of the garden. Crowley, nonplussed, twined his serpentine body into the space, coiling up to fit neatly in the space. Aziraphale twisted a little to smile at him before looking back. 

“Oh, it’s so good -  _ so small _ \- oh, little thing, come here,” he coaxed, and Crowley wasn’t sure if this was directed to himself - a sudden moment of jealousy - until he realised the angel was gesturing to him, patting the space to the join of his wing to his shoulder. Crowley’s heart seemed to quiver in his chest, and he lifted himself. He trailed his head along the angel’s robes, sliding his nose past the downy feathers at his shoulder and taking a long flicker of his tongue to snatch up the soft scent of the angel’s skin. He curled his head over Aziraphale’s shoulder and rested there, so close to the angel’s neck he could feel the warmth of his skin. His body rested against the spine of the Keeper, feeling so solid and real. 

Nothing had prepared him for the moment when the angel turned his head slightly and drew his mouth close to Crowley’s face, whispering gently. 

“ _ Whereupon it made this threne, to the Phoenix and the Dove, _ ” came the soft words, breath huffing across Crowley’s nose as his heart sang. Aziraphale’s eyes weren’t looking at him, instead looking into the garden and a smile growing across his face. 

“ _ Co-supremes and stars of love, as chorus to their tragic scene, _ ” 

Aziraphale lifted a hand slowly, his voice steady and serene as he recited gently to Crowley. He pointed towards the roses, where something moved. A tiny fluttering of wings. 

“ _ Beauty, truth and rarity,” _

A small bird, so small Crowley almost missed it as it flitted upwards out of the rose bush. It was light brown, almost sandy coloured with a yellow beak and bright eyes. It hopped and its head darted around, looking for something it now could not see. It opened its mouth and the throat warbled, a sound weaving through the glorious garden. Next to him Aziraphale made a sound, unlike one Crowley had heard from the angel yet, like a small whimper in his throat. A desperate little hiccup. As he whispered more words into Crowley’s ear he could hear the tremble in the angel’s voice. 

“ _ Grace in all simplicity, _ ” 

The bird lifted away from the rose and spread its wings, darting to cross the garden space and to where ever it needed to be. 

“Oh, little thing, you found a nightingale,” Aziraphale whispered, a slight awe in his voice as his mouth moved closer to Crowley’s head.

Rapid whistles and sweet chirrups joined the bird’s song, and Crowley noticed another movement from a hanging basket by one of the numerous paths of bookshelves. A little yellow bird fluttered up and sailed across the space, its call joining that of the nightingale. 

One by one, birds appeared from nook and cranny and nest. Some were brightly coloured in pastel shades similar to Crowley’s paints. Others were sleek and black, feathers glinting in the sun to reveal shimmering blues or mottled browns. Others were striped and spotted. All were beautiful. 

Aziraphale lifted a hand to Crowley slowly, both of them watching the birds fill the space with glorious song and bustling activity. His fingers brushed the underside of Crowley’s throat, a soft caress of gratitude for this wonderful gift. 

“You  _ clever  _ serpent,” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes:  
>  _Whereupon it made this threne, to the Phoenix and the Dove_ \- Shakespeare, 'The Phoenix and the Turtle' (1601)


	8. The Blackberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finds Aziraphale some blackberries.

Crowley didn’t try to apply logic to his time in the library with Aziraphale. It didn’t seem to have much purpose there, in a place where light operated in such a strange sentient fashion and the books seemed to sigh back at Aziraphale as he traced their spines. Given everything Crowley had seen from existence in the many years he had been in Her service, it didn’t seem a far stretch that of course there were songbirds nesting in the upper reaches of the bookshelves, and quite naturally there would be an orchard hidden behind a rusty gate between the books on Jam Preserves and Table Etiquette for Vikings.

Reuniting with his Keeper the next day, he found Aziraphale in even more of a delighted mood than usual. 

“Hello little thing! What a splendid morning it is, don’t you think?”

The mornings were always splendid, being Paradise and all, but Crowley inclined his head in agreement - of course it was splendid, of course!

“I’m all sixes and sevens today,” Aziraphale told him, shaking his head lightly. His eyes, whilst warm, were a little unfocused and bright with feeling, and he didn’t seem to be able to stop moving his hands, fidgeting and fussing, and a slight sway to his feet hidden under his robes. “I’m simply unable to process - I - I mean, yesterday, what wonder! And, oh! But of course-”

Aziraphale continued to witter on in this fashion for a little while, talking in a steady stream of thoughts and exclamations and disbelief about their encounter in the library, the plants and the birds! Oh, little thing, the birds! And the singing!

The content of these sentences didn’t interest Crowley as much as the general haphazard frenzy of emotion contained in the angel’s form. The Keeper’s eyes were lightly ringed with shadows from what appeared as sleeplessness - if, indeed, Aziraphale ever slept - and his hair was disordered and practically fluffy. Seeing the aura of excitement glow from the angel Crowley’s heart seemed to swell against his serpentine ribcage and he shivered in happiness as Aziraphale finally turned his attention fully back to him. 

“You are the cleverest little thing I ever did meet, you found the garden! Thank you, you wonderful little creature,” beamed Aziraphale, finally coming to a form of rest in front of the shelf Crowley was arranged on, and for a second bringing his face close to level with him with a bend of the knee. 

“I can’t think how many years I’ve been caring from this library and never in my time have I seen anything like that! What wonders could be tucked away, not just in the pages, but within the very walls. And you, my dear little thing, you unlocked them for me,” 

Hearing the wistful tone, Crowley wondered for a second if Aziraphale was going to touch him again, and silently hoped so. The love shining in the Keeper’s eyes faltered for a flicker and the angel sighed. 

“Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t be running off with you to look for more treasures, there’s work to be done after all. There always is,” 

Crowley didn’t want to work, but he didn’t mind if Aziraphale had to. He didn’t mind what they did, as long as he could come along. Worse comes to worst he could always coil up and have a quick nap, close by but unbothered by the admittedly dull administrative duties of a Keeper. 

He needn’t have worried. 

Aziraphale’s face was a delightful thing to watch, as if seeing the various thoughts tangle themselves together and play out like some sort of silent play on his features - a disappointed tug of the eyebrows, followed by a slight pout of the lower lip, a crumple of the brow and a darting of his eyes, before a secretive little smile eventually won out and Aziraphale took on an expression that Crowley had already learnt meant something along the lines of ‘oh, but one more couldn’t hurt’. 

They followed the same path as before, with a silently agreed plan to rediscover the garden and maybe take one of the many branching out corridors from it, to see where their feet (or tails ) would lead them. The process of retracing their path had seemed like a simple task, but they quickly realised this was not the case. Whatever unusual laws the physical forms of the library obeyed clearly didn’t include a rule about the need for consistency, whether in the form of straight logical lines or in the concept of revisitation. Following the angel lazily, Crowley didn’t pay attention to the shelves, focusing instead on the amusing sway of the robes that gave him peeks of the Keeper’s dusty feet, a soft ankle glimpsed in flashes, and even once a light dusting of golden leg hair. He almost bumped into the afore-mentioned feet when the Keeper stopped abruptly. 

“I think we’ve been led in a circle,” he told Crowley, a slight irritation in his voice. He consulted the bookcases, reading the titles with a furrowed brow. 

“Yes, see here? I’m sure we’ve passed by this row of books before, I remembered them because they’re not even really books, they’re sort of pamphlets I suppose,” he muttered, half to Crowley and half to himself. He pulled out free, a soft paper booklet with a black line diagram of some form of furniture on the front and an odd word that Crowley didn’t recognise. Aziraphale clearly was at a loss too, as he tried to enunciate the title and gave up halfway through. 

“I don’t know how to pronounce an o with two dots above it,” he told Crowley as if confessing to something scandalous. “I will have to make time to learn,”

Crowley looked around at the books and saw they were all instruction manuals and catalogues, haphazardly arranged in a loosely alphabetical format. The dust confirmed his suspicion that not many of the Keepers found their way here. It also confirmed Aziraphale’s hypothesis that they had been led in a circuit by the odd nature of the library, as he could clearly see the serpentine trail of his body curving through the dust ahead of them, following the tracks of the angel. 

Aziraphale was talking out loud to himself, muttering about reality and the flexibility of perception, but having missed the beginning of it, Crowley ignored the remainder. Instead he followed his own trail onwards, before finding himself at a distinct fork in the path that he surely would have noticed previously. 

Very literally, in fact, as there was a silver fork sticking up out of the floor with its prongs aimed upwards at the dim obscured ceiling. Stuck into the prongs was a paper note, neatly pierced on its end. Reading it Crowley raised a metaphorical eyebrow, before going to fetch his Keeper. 

_ Not all those who wander are lost, but those who are lost may wonder.  _

“How peculiar,” murmured Aziraphale, plucking the note from the fork and giving the fork a cautious prod. The thing was resolutely stuck in the ground, with no visible sign of how it has arrived that way, and the new path that branched out to their left seemed to glow a little bright, casting a dim series of shadows of the fork onto the floor. 

“Very peculiar. I suppose it’s for us, but as for its meaning… are we lost? I guess not, we know where we are going, but we do not know how we can get there,”

Crowley wound himself around the angel’s feet as he crouched down, an idea coming to his mind but unsure how to communicate it without revealing more of his nature than he intended to. Instead he tried to beguile his angel down the alternate path, or possibly inspire the same idea, or maybe possibly just to brush his body against those lovely ankles. 

“Wonder… what are we wondering about? What are we thinking about? Not the books, but the destination?” 

Crowley could have whined, wanting to shout his answer gleefully like a young angel still in the classroom. Aziraphale looked away from the note and finally looked at Crowley, his blue eyes puzzled. 

“Little thing, do you suppose we got the intention the wrong way around?” 

Crowley blinked slowly, his body curving in a luxurious coil in the Keeper’s robes, the stillness of his head betrayed by his excitement. 

“We have to think of the books we want, rather than the gift the books offer. Whatever magic this is, it starts with the books,” offered Aziraphale, brow still a little furrowed. “When we were together yesterday you wanted to see the books on plants, and then we found the garden. Maybe that’s the key?” 

Crowley inclined his head, and was rewarded with Aziraphale’s bright smile. 

“You clever thing, you got that much faster than me, didn’t you?” 

Crowley tilted his head, as if to say “Well…” and Aziraphale’s breath puffed over his face as he chuckled. 

“If that’s the case, then let me test it. Yesterday you wanted the horticulture. Today… today I think I want blackberries,” 

Crowley had no idea where Aziraphale had plucked this certainty from, but he was happy for the decisiveness. Mind made up, Aziraphale straightened, pocketed the mysterious note (leaving the fork) and turned around on one heel before marching off with a speed Crowley hadn’t expected. 

“Come along, little one. Let’s look out for a hedgerow or two!” 

They retraced their steps back into the Life Sciences. Aziraphale knew these bookcases well, and even Crowley recognised a turn or two, but Aziraphale didn’t stop and they passed through the biological tomes of classification, and then through the shelves that were more to do with the husbandry of the plants, the care and cultivation of gardens. This time Aziraphale picked his route without too much deliberation, mirroring Crowley’s swift choices the day before. Working their way deeper, Crowley tried to read the titles to ascertain where they were but he also didn’t want to fall behind his angel. He couldn’t hear Aziraphale’s muttered commentary on his choices as they went and disgruntled but amused, he increased the speed of his slithering to match with the Keeper. 

“I know what book we need, little thing, I think it’s just… ah!” the angel turned once more and the path ahead of them met them with a warm glow of gold light instead of the stark white glow of the previous shelves. “That’s more like it,” 

Aziraphale stopped to run his finger along the colourful spines lining the shelves, one hand resting absentmindedly on the wood now painted with a charming pale pink. Crowley did one lazy loop around the angel’s legs before going to read the titles. 

_ Cake Pops! 100 designs for circular fun! _

_   
_ _ Jam, Jam and more Jam!  _

_   
_ _ Hot Sexy Buns _

Mystified, Crowley turned his attention back to the angel, climbing up to see what Aziraphale had pulled free. The angel had stopped talking, and was engrossed in a colourful book with a lot of pictures. Crowley nosed his way out of the shelf to twist and read along. 

_ How To Make the Perfect Victoria Sponge _

What in Paradise was a Victoria Sponge? Aziraphale turned the page, sighing a little as he saw the next offering: something called a Lemon Meringue Pie. And then the next page: Blackberry and Apple Crumble. 

“Oh!” sighed the angel, sounding like his heart was breaking over the explanation of how to properly hand pinch together a perfect crumble. “It sounds divine, doesn’t it, little thing? And such a wonderful colour,” 

Crowley had no idea what to make of it. Aziraphale sighed again heavily, wistfully, practically lustifully, as he sank down to the floor with the book. Crowley followed him, curling around his back and resting his body up against the angel to slot his head on the shoulder and read along with him. 

Very soon another book was pulled down to join them on the floor, and then another. Before Crowley could count them, there were dozens of recipe books laid out on the floor, spines cracked out to reveal sumptuous pictures of what Crowley came to understand would be humanity’s, or maybe Aziraphale’s, favourite food invention: baking. 

Aziraphale’s love of his books was apparently rivalled by his love of what they contained. He had covered the floor in a semi circle around them, and was pointing things out to Crowley and explaining how they achieved the deep rich colour of the mince pie, dusted with sugar, or the sculptural peaks of the meringue created by stiffly beaten eggs and sugar. Aziraphale ran a finger across the edge of a cupcake with a tall swirl of frosting and a sprinkle of colourful dots, as if he could dip his finger straight through the paper and steal a taste for himself. 

“Have you ever seen anything so lovely? So… scrumptious!” sighed Aziraphale, with such a warm dreamy tone Crowley looked at him just to see the happy glaze in his eyes and the moony smile.

_ Yes. Yes I have _ , he thought softly. 

Aziraphale pulled one of the books closer to him, bringing it up onto his lap before starting to tell Crowley everything in it. It didn’t take long for Crowley to realise that Aziraphale wasn’t reading from the book, but explaining it’s contents from memory. 

“This one is a gooseberry, it’s a little sharp but apparently it makes a splendid jam to go with something creamy or even with ice cream. Oh, and look at these, these are raspberries! They look so soft with those tiny little hairs, but what a smashing colour. Oh - and here! These are the blackberries!” 

The small fruits were pictured in a cluster clinging to a spindly branch surrounded by jagged leaves. The colour was different to the other fruits Aziraphale had flicked past, they gleamed in the sun with a dark purple glint from within their black tiny circles. 

“They almost match you, don’t you think?” Aziraphale said, tracing a finger over the black flesh before lifting his hand to trace his fingertip under Crowley’s jaw. The motion caused Crowley to freeze, a shiver overtaking him as Aziraphale unknowingly tickled his skin and he squirmed a little, overtaken by both the sensation and the casual affection. He closed his eyes as he schooled himself to calm, and slid down from Aziraphale’s arm. He carefully navigated the books on the floor, careful not to bend back pages but something traced his underbelly where he wasn’t paying attention and he almost yelped, twitching away from what turned out to be a thorn on the floor. 

He regarded it with suspicion, before looking up and peering down the corridor ahead of them. The light was still warm, and there seemed to be a shape up ahead that he knew belonged to neither book nor shelf. He moved onwards, peering into the shelves before finding a curved arm of a bramble poking through into the corridor. Sharp leaves spread outwards, demanding of the sun, and thorns lined up along the vine like a regiment of soldiers. The vine was tangled in itself, with more vines moving upwards and along the shelf. He continued, and saw that the brambles had ignored the order of the shelves to completely take over and create quite a heavy thicket. Minding his long form, Crowley continued on into it, searching for what he hoped to find, and before long he found it: a handful of bright, ripe blackberries. He flicked his tongue at them, smelling the sharp tang of them and wondered what they would be like to taste. Better than that, he wondered what it would be like to watch his angel eat them. If he made such lovely sounds at the mere page of them, surely the taste of them would be a treasure unlike any other. 

Gleefully Crowley returned to the angel, winding himself around his crossed legs and giving a tug which served to interrupt the angel’s engrossment in the page on the proper whisking method for custard. 

“What is it, little thing?” Aziraphale asked, looking up. Crowley tugged again and wound his way towards the blackberries, hoping this would be enough to drag the angel away from his beloved books. It was, and soon Crowley was once again being praised for being the cleverest little thing She ever did create. Aziraphale’s initial disregard for the brambles was completely forgotten upon the discovery of the berries. Watching the angel pluck the fruit from the branch and bring them to his mouth, Crowley was delighted to see the tips of his fingers grow stained with dark red juices. He watched the greed at which Aziraphale tugged one free, then another, then another, desperate for more of the sharp delicious flavour. His eyes were sparkling with life, documenting every aspect of the experience as his lips smacked around the fruit. 

“Oh, how marvellous! How absolutely - oh, little thing!” 

Sighing heavily, Aziraphale sat back on his heels and gave a loud moan of happiness. Crowley watched with his own form of hunger as Aziraphale began to lick his stained fingers clean with an equally stained tongue, sucking them in to chase more of the flavour. This was a sight Crowley never wanted to be without, watching Aziraphale in this state of ecstasy. 

“Oh!” cried Aziraphale, his eyes going wide. “Oh my dear, I’m so sorry! I didn’t share them at all, oh my, oh what a silly, selfish angel I am - oh little thing, I am sorry,” 

Crowley would have laughed had a snake been able to. Instead he wound himself closer to his angel and nudged his head against Aziraphale’s wringing hands. 

“Oh, you are so good, little thing, such a wonderful little thing to bring me to them, I only wish-,” Crowley interrupted Aziraphale’s continued centure to flick his tongue against Aziraphale’s thumb where the tacky juice of the fruit still remained. The smell of the split fruit was much stronger, almost bitter in its sharpness and so vibrant with its sweetness. Crowley had never tasted anything like it. Under the juice his tongue brushed Aziraphale’s skin, and the warm full-bodied scent of the angel complimented the blackberries very well. 

He took one last indulgent taste of the fruit, and descended to the floor again. They had made one tremendous discovery already and, looking ahead into the winding path of the thicket, they were well on their way to making another. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes:  
>  _Not all those who wander are lost, but those who are lost may wonder._ \- J.R.R.Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring. The first half is from a poem from the book, the second half is a plot contrivance for my own benefit.


	9. The Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale meet some lovely new friends, and a few peculiar ones.

The wooden bookcases slowly gave way to tall trunks of trees, their branches twisting over them in a wide canopy. Light peaked through but only in a dim series of warm shards. The floor became knotted with roots and packed down earth, moss growing underfoot as they made their way through the blackberry patch. Looking back they could see the dull glow of the library, but the trees stretched around them in every direction, tree trunks obscuring the dimensions of the forest they found themselves in. Crowley led the way with a certain version of confidence, his senses so flooded with the sensations of the forest he forgot to feel any form of trepidation. There was a stillness here that didn’t sit quite right. Stillness in a library was one thing, but stillness in a living forest was another. Crowley turned his head, searching for the sounds of birds or animals but he could only hear the rustle of leaves, the gentle creak of branches. 

Had he been paying attention he would have noticed that the angel - usually so keen to fill the silence with observation - was also uncharacteristically quiet. He could still sense Aziraphale close behind him, feel his feet on the ground and the swish of his robes, but the Keeper was also completely absorbed in their surroundings. 

As they continued along the path the tall trees began to shrink a little, bringing the canopy closer to the forest floor, and became more twisted and relaxed, if there was in fact a way for a forest to appear relaxed. There were definitely birds here now, and sunlight breaking through leaves to encourage bushes and flowers to weave their way upwards. There was no real order here, only a pleasant thriving chaos that Crowley approved of greatly. Weaving their way through what could have been an orchard of fruit trees - although oddly devoid of fruit. They had spent time reading up about all the different types of fruit trees and the kind of soil they favoured, the light they enjoyed, the kind of harvest to expect. Crowley knew without looking behind him that Aziraphale was peering into each cluster of branches with a dim hopeful expression of veiled curiosity, hoping to find a shining red skinned apple to pluck down or maybe even a peach. He didn’t  _ have  _ to look behind him, but he did anyway, and seeing the angel’s careful expression as he parted leaves to search for fruit was enough to make his heart beat a little harder. 

Aziraphale would go without a second helping of freshly picked fruit this day it seemed, as all of the trees were harvested. They soon uncovered the reason why. 

Coming to a small clearing in the woods, the trees thinned out to allow the sunlight to pour through and fill the space with a warm glow. Crowley had heard about sunlight casting out warmth, but it was the first time he had ever experienced the sensation like this. Moving into a beam he wriggled with delight feeling the warmth spill across his skin. Twisting over to let the sunlight cover his belly he greedily soaked up as much of the heat as he could. 

Crowley had bathed in pure starlight every day for all of his existence. He had wrestled stars into orbs, harnessed cosmic fire and sent it spitting across the night sky in a brilliant comet. He had held fire in his hands, letting it play over his fingers like a living creature. None of these were like this, this was so delicate and soft and  _ good _ . 

Filtered through skies of emptiness and dust, the roaring heat of the sun reaching out and only barely skimming the soft earth with its fingertips. All that destructive energy reduced down to this one glorious little pool of warmth that filled Crowley with its very purpose. 

He continued to wriggle indulgently, coiling around himself like a rope knotted onto itself. When he finally looked up he found Aziraphale’s blue eyes creased up in a fond smile, the angel kneeling next to him. He stilled, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Aziraphale’s smile only grew. 

“Does it feel good, little thing? Oh, my little thing,”

The gentleness in Aziraphale’s voice could have broken Crowley, and he slowly unknotted himself until he was back in his traditional coil, lifting his head to meet his angel’s eyes. He wanted to say something. He wanted to agree, to nod and say ‘Yes, your little thing. I’m yours. Please,’. He wanted to whisper Aziraphale’s name, if only so the angel could hear how softly he would hold his name in his mouth, how carefully he would form it with his tongue. 

But that would mean revealing the deception. And curse him, he was too weak to tear it away just yet. 

Aziraphale reached out one hand and slipped his fingers into the beam of light, watching it illuminate his skin. He cast out his fingers, turning his hand over to feel the play of shadow across his palm. His hand kept coming, and brushed against Crowley’s jawbone lightly, fingertips tracing the heat from his scales. 

“Glorious,” he whispered, “Beautiful,” he told Crowley, his eyes practically glowing. 

The moment broke just before Crowley’s resolve, with a sudden rustle in a nearby bush and a sound of feet thumping across moss and tree roots. A patter of little feet as a small creature ran through the orchard and appeared just to the other side of Crowley, his eyes snapping to the movement and following the animal. They both turned, and watched as the animal barrelled its way into the clearing and towards the large twisted oak tree in its very centre. Around the old roots woven into the dirt there was a sloping sandy bank which dipped before rising up to meet the forest around it, where the two observers now hid behind a large felled trunk of an old tree now coated in moss. Aziraphale crouched carefully, peering over the edge with his nose stuck right up against the trunk. Crowley slunk his way up it, already perfectly suited for disguise. 

The animal that had bolted past them wasn’t much larger than Crowley’s snake form, but with four legs and two long ears which moved from being flat against its head to loose as it reached the opening in the roots of the oak tree and collapsed - somewhat dramatically - on the sandy porch of the tunnel leading into the ground. It had collapsed in front of a larger version of itself, but this animal happened to be wearing a large blue cotton dress with a very clean white pinny, and a shawl tied around its shoulder with a cerise pink ribbon wound through its border. 

“Rabbits!” whispered Aziraphale, with the kind of excitement reserved for only the greatest of discoveries. “I’m sure of it!”

The mother rabbit - for that was who she was - bent down to the young rabbit panting for breath on her doorstep and smoothed back his ears, but there was no denying from the set of her shoulders that she was scolding him as she did so. 

Straightening up, she turned and went back to the mouth of the tunnel where three little rabbits sat as good as gold. It was only then Crowley realised why Aziraphale had been denied another juicy snack. There were baskets stacked with fruit all lined up neatly along the low table the little rabbits sat at, some almost overflowing with apples, pears, peaches and berries. One sat with a bucket at her rear paws and was hulling strawberries one by one, dropping the little green heads into the bucket. Another was chopping apples one by one, quartering them and slicing away the cores into a small pile of seeds. The last one was washing the pears, cupping them gently in her paws. 

The whole scene was so soft and calm, even with the little rabbit’s abrupt arrival, that Crowley felt Aziraphale soften next to him, crossing his arms over the edge of the tree trunk and sighing gently. 

“Do you suppose they’re making jam?” he asked Crowley wistfully, his eyes glimmering as he coveted the box of raspberries closest to them. Flicking his tongue Crowley could taste the tang of fruits in the air, and judging by the deep breath Aziraphale drew in, so could he. 

“Or maybe some crumbles? Quite a lot I would imagine…”

They watched for a little longer, both sitting together in silence watching the rabbits go about their business. After a little time, the mother rabbit returned with a warm pail of water and a flannel tied to a stick. The little male rabbit made a motion as if to slip away but she caught him by the ear and tugged him over to it before setting about poking, prodding and pestering him through all of the rituals of a bath. His sisters giggled at him a little, but did not stop their work. 

Eventually he was deemed clean enough and sent inside to get dry, the mother returning to help her little daughters with the day’s work. 

Crowley watched them a little longer, but soon grew bored. He nudged Aziraphale’s arm, slithering his body off the trunk and returning towards the path. 

“Oh, must we? But… oh, alright,” 

_ Pushover, _ thought Crowley with a smirk. 

They picked a path around the clearing, treading softly as to not disturb the family of rabbits, and Aziraphale pointed out a well trod path weaving between trees. They continued on at a leisurely pace, Aziraphale lifting his face up to the small snatches of sun coming through the canopy and Crowley picking his way between roots and small flurries of flowers along the path. Soon the canopy grew thicker and the light dimmed, the flowers giving way to moss and the occasional bramble that Crowley carefully avoided. A stillness descended over the forest ahead and around them, not quite silence but devoid of movement or birdsong. 

“Maybe we should head back the way we…” Aziraphale trailed off as they looked behind them, and found that the path they had been following seemed to look exactly the same as the path in front - any patches of sunlight and rabbit warrens no longer visible. They stood for a moment in a pensive silence, within Crowley could practically hear Aziraphale’s thoughts as they played out across his face - a mixture of concern, amusement and curiosity. A rustle of leaves drew his attention away from his angel, and he turned to spot a flash of red well ahead of them through the trees. Footsteps became clear, crunching dry leaves underfoot. 

Very soon a figure appeared not far from them, a petite one a head or so smaller than Aziraphale and dressed in a red cloak and hood. Aziraphale noticed her too, and gave a small and enchanted gasp. Crowley understood this immediately, and knew without looking up that the Keeper’s face was soft and glowing with feeling upon sighting this little person. It was well understood that the forms She had gifted them were the blueprints upon which She had designed her dear humans, and although they had seen a handful of wonderful creatures in their adventures, nothing had prepared them for seeing a real living person - a person with free will, wild thoughts, and an appetite for life only those with a limited time of it feel. 

As the figure drew closer Crowley could see she was most likely female, if only signalled by her bare legs and the dress she wore under her red cloak, if not also by the brunette pigtails and freckled nose framed by her wide dark brown eyes. She was young, no longer than an adolescent but closer to a child. He wondered for a moment if his form would scare her, but as she came close to them it became obvious that she was as unbothered by the appearance of a giant snake in the forest as she was to the appearance of an angel accompanying it. 

“Hello,” she said, stopping in front of Aziraphale and shifting her woven basket in her hands. Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and shining with excitement, and he stammered over his words. 

“Oh! H-hello,” he said, his hands wringing slightly in a motion that Crowley mentally translated into ‘Oh look! I’m talking to a human!’. 

“Are you lost?” she asked him, unperturbed by his general flustered nature. 

“Oh, um, yes, well, I suppose you could say that,” he got out, gesturing behind them. “The path seemed to have… well, changed, if you like,” 

“It does that,” she agreed, shifting her basket again. “We’re not far from a signpost, I’ll show you,”

She turned her attention to Crowley and cocked her head a little to the side, looking him up and down. 

“My, what a large snake you are,” she said, following his body along to his tail with her eyes. He said nothing - obviously - but blinked slowly. Apparently little girls were not scared of snakes of any size, maybe this form wasn’t scary at all. Maybe when the time came for the Earth to be finished, he would have to find out what humans actually found scary, just to be sure he knew. 

“I suppose it’s all the better to cuddle with,” she said after a moment of study of his coils. “After all, what else would all that tail be for?”

Aziraphale beamed. “Naturally, a wonderful cuddler, I assure you,” 

Crowley turned his head to Aziraphale with an air of bafflement, and also a little part of his mind yelling that, yes, of course this long body was for cuddling, feel free to try it, but Aziraphale chose that exact moment to ignore his gaze and turn pink at the tips of his ears. 

“After you,” the angel said, motioning for the little girl to pass in between them along the path. He held out his hand in offering and she handed him the basket gratefully, the contents covered up by a cheerful red and white checked cloth. 

“Where are you going?” she asked as they fell into step, with Crowley following along behind. 

“I suppose you could just say we’re exploring,” Aziraphale told her, twisting to look at her as they walked. Crowley smirked to himself as the Keeper tripped a little, but couldn’t pull his eyes away from the human child. 

“You picked a good place to explore,” she told him, pointing forward. The path was approaching a clearing with a large single sign post staked into the ground at a slight angle. The break in the trees illuminated the wooden boards that lined its length, and there were little white flowers growing at its base. They came closer and Crowley could see each one of the boards pointed in different directions away down multiple branching off paths, all with names painted on carefully. 

“You see what I mean?” she said, taking her basket off Aziraphale and gesturing to the dozens of paths leading off around them. “Lots to explore, but don’t get lost again,” 

“We’ll try our best, thank you so much,” Aziraphale told her, smiling. “Where are you going today?” 

“To my grandmother’s house,” she grinned, reaching into her basket and pulling the cloth back. Aziraphale made another noise Crowley was able to translate into pure desire, and moved forward to peer inside. On one side rested a meat pie with thick buttery pastry, wrapped in bees cloth and smelling strongly of sage and onion. On the other was a pile of thick gingerbread men, with chocolate eyes and gumdrop buttons. In the middle was a large sprig of lavender tied in a ribbon, and nestled underneath it flashed something sharp and silver. 

“Oh, that’s… that’s a big knife you have there,” commented Aziraphale, his gaze interrupted from studying the golden brown gingerbread. 

“That’s for any wolves that might be lurking around,” she told him, shrugging. “And for the pie,” 

“Ah, of course,” 

“Anyway, have fun on your adventure. It was nice to meet you and your big snake,” she grinned, and covered her basket up again. She waved and set off down her own path, her red cloak swinging with each step. 

Aziraphale watched her leave, smiling with a fond glow in his eyes. Crowley watched Aziraphale instead. He could watch Aziraphale all day. Should he feel jealous seeing the swell of love in the Keepers face looking at these creations? Maybe, but he found he just couldn’t. Not when he got to be there in the orbit of the angels uninhibited love. This was reaffirmed as Aziraphale turned his gaze back to meet Crowley’s gaze and that glow deepened into a wide smile with the crinkling by his eyes. 

“Oh, little thing, wasn’t that special?” he sighed, his hand loosely clenched over his heart, his robes caught between his fingers. “I… I never thought they would… that they would be like that,” 

Crowley flicked his tongue, moving closer to Aziraphale. He understood what the Keeper meant, could feel the same excitement in his own chest, albeit more of an echo to the Aziraphale’s delight. He was rewarded by Aziraphale’s fingers skating across the bridge of his head, pressing with warmth against his scales. 

“Isn’t She just such a wonderful artist?” the angel murmured. “Such wonderful, intelligent, brilliant creations,” 

Crowley wriggled with delight, before turning away in pleased embarrassment. There was only so much pure unadulterated love a snake could take. 

Looking at the signport, there seemed to be endless options scanning out in every direction possible. As Aziraphale joined him by the towering pole of destinations, the Keeper began to read some of them aloud. 

“ _ The Shire… The Crooked House… Hatter's Tea Party _ \- ooh! _ The Chocolate Factory _ !” 

Crowley would have rolled his eyes playfully, but he was distracted by his own series of destinations, some promising sights he couldn’t imagine. 

_ The Dungeons… Diagon Alley… Toad Hall… Cair Paravel... _

“It seems there may be more than we can see in one day, little thing,” commented Aziraphale. “I don’t know about you, but that only seems like a good thing to me,” 

Days on days exploring the forest and its treasures with his gentle angel? Of course it was a good thing, how could it possibly be anything other than good? 

“You should pick, dear one, I picked blackberries and you were clever enough to find us the rabbits, so I know you will pick an excellent adventure,” 

Crowley circled the post, but other than names there was no other information given in terms of distance. It was likely in this bizarre world that it didn’t matter much, he felt confident that the library wouldn’t leave them walking for long before offering them up another wonder. 

With this in mind, he chose from among the first Aziraphale had read out, followed the arrow of the sign and set off in a manner he hoped would make it obvious for Aziraphale to follow him. He was correct in two things: firstly, that Aziraphale followed him, and secondly, that the strange magic of the library didn’t make them wait long. 

The path wound up the side of a small hill, the trees becoming thinner and bendier with soft draping leaves that trailed down and tickled Crowley. The sunlight was softer now, more of a hazy glow of late afternoon. Reaching the peak of the hill, they found themselves looking down into another clearing, one which seemed to contain a much more lively scene than others they had stumbled across. 

The whole clearing was crisscrossed with strings of lights, with hanging brightly coloured lanterns that increased the warm glow of the whole scene immensely. Paper chains were randomly thrown into the fruit trees that lined the area, a sign that someone had taken great care to create the linked chains, and someone else had taken no care in arranging them. Under this canopy of lights there was a long table, which apparently seemed to be a procession of smaller tables of varying widths and heights arranged into one long table and covered with an enormous pink tablecloth. Positioned around the table were a wide variety of chairs, from wicker garden chairs to overstuffed chintz armchairs and even the occasional deckchair. Some of these chairs had occupants, but the majority were vacant. Whilst Crowley studied the occupants with narrowing gold eyes, Aziraphale seemed entirely focused on the many, many overburdened plates and saucers on the table. 

“Oh, little thing, look!” 

Every inch of the table was covered in brightly coloured teapots and stacked towers of teacups and saucers, none of the china matching and some of them cracked and leaking tea onto the tablecloth. In between the numerous teapots were plates and tiered trays stacked high with dozens of examples of finger foods. It was these finger foods in particular that Aziraphale seemed focussed on, and Crowley couldn’t blame him, for the majority of them appeared to be miniature versions of the cakes, pies and desserts he had been reciting to Crowley with great joy in the library. Tiny cupcakes with rainbow spotted wrappers and swirled icing, mountains of buttery pastries striped with chocolate, a pyramid of perfectly curved meringue shells in every colour imaginable. 

Whilst Aziraphale composed himself, Crowley returned to his study of the party occupants. The central figure seated at the head of the table was an oddly proportioned man with an oversized head - or at least, he assumed it was oversized, maybe She did intend for the males to appear different - topped with a large velvet bottle green top hat, with some artifacts arranged in the ribbon. He was dressed in clashing colours, with a mustard waistcoat and high waisted slacks which appeared liberally stained with tea. Whilst all of this suggested the man in the top hat was perhaps a little strange, it was the enormous yellow bowtie with haphazard red polka dots that confirmed he must have been just a little mad. 

The host was obviously in the middle of a long speech, gesturing wildly with an empty cup of tea in one hand and the other unable to rest in between pointing, fluttering, adjusting his hat or tie, or occasionally curling into a fist for emphasis. His guests seemed to be unmoved by his speech, although they appeared to be unmoved by anything. One was a larger version of the rabbits they had seen earlier, although with usually elongated proportions and long grey wiry hair frizzling away from his body, giving the illusion of a hare struck by lightning. He had several ears of corn stuck into his coarse hair, and a few remnants of brambles and hay attached to his person, whether rumpled into his cranberry red patchworked coat, or waving along with every slow bored blink of his eyelashes. The hare was at least sitting upright with his eyes open, which was an improvement on his neighbour, a much smaller animal with short soft hair who appeared to be slumped into the highchair it was propped up against and completely asleep. 

“How curious,” murmured Aziraphale, his face close to Crowleys to whisper. Crowley flicked his tongue out, angling it to press briefly against the angel’s cheek. “Do you think they would mind… additional guests?” 

Crowley fought a smirk, and gave out a low hiss of amusement instead. Making the decision for his indecisive friend, he uncoiled and began to move down the slope towards the party. As he got closer, it became clear that the host was lecturing his guests on the importance of saucers, and how a great many cups had lived ling without a saucer, and by gum, it was their duty to see to it that every saucer had a cup of any size, colour, pattern or purpose. 

It was the hare who saw them first, Crowley leading the helm while Aziraphale covered the rear. 

“Ah, new guests! Please, come, join us! Please!”

The Hatter at the end of the table stopped mid sentence and looked thunderously towards them at having his speech disrupted, but the storm clouds lifted quickly as he saw two new guests to educate. 

“Welcome, welcome, come and sit!”

Aziraphale - pink with pleasure for the interaction of more of Her genius devices - sank into a low and enthusiastically springed armchair made of a violent yellow velvet intertwined with roses. He sat back a little too far and was unable to reach the table, so quickly reseated himself and his eyes grew ever wider at being facelevel with the afternoon tea. Beside him, Crowley slithered up onto a stool and arranged himself in an artful coil, the stool not having enough space to accommodate his tail, but kept him within reach of the Keeper and nearly directly in the eye line of the newly awoken dormouse who glared at him suspiciously (and sleepily). 

“Come, guests, tell us your names!” insisted the Hatter, “But only if they are completely new names,” 

“Yes, we won’t do with reused names, simply won’t do!” agreed the March Hare. 

“Oh!” said Aziraphale, tearing his gaze away from the finger sandwiches. “But whyever for?” 

“For we won’t go sharing them about, too greedy if you should want for more names than others,” 

“Precisely!” agreed the Hatter, stirring his tea with his finger. 

Crowley glanced sideways as his companion, and saw that Aziraphale’s face was crumpled up in mild confusion, but his fingers had laced in a way that he could sense a debate coming on. 

“Is it greedy for two to have the same name? Or is it greedy for one to have two or more names?” he offered, leaning forward a little. 

“It is greedy to do any of the above, phonetically glutinous!”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to pursue the point, still confused and a little ruffled by the ridiculousness of the conversation, but he closed it again. He looked at Crowley with an odd expression, but Crowley did the snake equivalent of a shrug.

“What are you celebrating?” Aziraphale diverted, with a note of hope in his voice. “Is it a party?”

“Why of course!” agreed the Hatter, “Why else would we be drinking so much wine?”

“Oh! But I don’t see any wine,” 

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale again, who looked was looking utterly forlorn at the absence of the wine.

“That’s because there isn’t any,” said the March Hare. 

“Why would you say you were drinking wine when you only have tea on the table?” 

“Because it’s rude to sit at a party’s table without being invited!”

“But we _were_ invited, you invited us,”

“Rightly so!” interjected the Dormouse, glaring at Crowley through the handle of a large duck shaped teapot. Crowley ignored the mouse, but kept it in his sideview incase it did anything stupid. Aziraphale sighed heavily, and leaned back into his chair a little, and flashed a look at Crowley that he interpreted as ‘ _ maybe She hasn’t worked out all the kinks ye _ t’. In return Crowley blinked slowly and flicked his tongue at the Keeper, before looking meaningfully at the cakes. If they could make no sense at the table, they may as well eat. 

“May I?” asked Aziraphale, straightening a bit and gesturing at the tiered tray of cupcakes in front of him. He didn’t wait for a response, and reached out for a little finger sized puff of cake with a long stripe of icing along it. Crowley waited for the cake to disappear and for the long awaited moan of pleasure his angel would give on finally tasting his beloved sweet treats. 

This expectation was almost immediately dashed, as Aziraphale lifted the cake to his mouth but then stopped and inspected it closely. 

“What kind of party celebrates with stones painted like cakes?” he asked, partly to himself and partly to the collected audience. Crowley came closer to look. The ‘cake’ was in fact a smooth river rock painted to resemble sponge and topped with a chalky paste for the icing. The sprinkles appeared to be coloured in wood chips. Crowley could feel his angel’s disappointment keenly, and watched as he morosely placed the rock back onto the table. Examining the remainder of the tier revealed macaroons made of old doorknobs stuck together with jam, finger sandwiches comprised of pieces of paper glued together and chocolate kisses that were most certainly mud. Crowley slithered onto the table to investigate the remaining plates, with a dim hope that maybe there was  _ something  _ present he could offer to his angel. 

“Only the _ best _ rocks for this party, for we only have it once a day!” said the Hatter, with what seemed like an out of proportioned sense of pride. 

“What do you do with them if not eat them?” asked Aziraphale, getting exasperated. His eyes followed Crowley’s investigations, with the kind of pout that melted ice. 

“If we ate them then how could we share them?” 

“Share them? Oh good Lord…” sighed Aziraphale heavily, sinking back into his chair and covering his face with one hand. Crowley returned to his angel and slithered across the arm of the chair, dragging his tail against the Keeper’s sleeve in what he hoped conveyed some comfort. “Are you sure there isn’t any wine?” he asked, with his last little shred of hope. 

“Why have wine when you could have tea?!” laughed the March Hare, standing to pour himself another cup to one side of his already full cup. 

“And why have cake when you could have rocks?” agreed the Hatter, now using one of the paper sandwiches to stir his tea. 

“And why have sense when you could have bafflement?” moaned Aziraphale under his breath, with a frustrated tone and a roll of his eyes as he stood. “Come along, little thing, let’s take our leave,” 

Crowley hissed in agreement and they left the tea party behind them, neither looking back. 

“And why have guests when you could have riddles?” came from somewhere behind them. 

“And why have answers when you can have questions!” came a response. 

As they came to the edge of the clearing and started along the path, Aziraphale fell into step beside Crowley and sighed heavily . Crowley stopped and looked up at his angel, who looked very tired and disappointed. Upon meeting his gaze, the angel smiled gratefully and Crowley felt the familiar warmth spread out under his scales. 

“You know, I do love your company, little thing,” Aziraphale sighed. “I am very thankful to have you close,” 

Crowley wriggled a little in delight. Aziraphale reached his hand down and cupped his fingers carefully under Crowley’s jaw, rubbing his thumb along the ridge at his snout. Crowley flicked his tongue out and traced it along Aziraphale’s inner wrist, enjoying both of the familiar scent of his angel as well as a shiver brought forth by his tickle. 

“Why have nonsensical wonders when one could have a companion like you?” 

Crowley was set to wriggle again, but this was interrupted by Aziraphale’s follow up. 

“Intelligent, observant and blissfully _quiet_ ,” sighed the angel happily, before removing his hand and setting off along the path. Crowley stared after him, indignant. He hissed lightly, lowering himself back down the earth and sulking as he followed the angel back towards the library. 

“ _ That’ss what you think. _ ”

Following their return to the silent shelves and endless corridors of the library, it was agreed by Aziraphale and seconded by Crowley’s flicked tongue that Crowley would be choosing the next adventure, and possibly the one after that, since Aziraphale felt that the Tea Party arrangement hadn’t really panned out how he had hoped, whereas his beloved little thing seemed to have struck gold more than once. It was also agreed that they would choose very carefully which creations they engaged with, as they weren’t sure if the quality of conversation was really up to par at this stage of creation. 

“I’m sure She’ll have all the oddities fixed by the time it all gets going,” assured Aziraphale, but there was a slight frown buried in his brow, an odd expression that Crowley knew translated into more of a hope than a certainty. 

There was no need for either of them to be concerned, but of course they weren’t aware of that. It would be quite some time before Aziraphale would finally be able to locate and cross off  _ Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland _ from the shelves of the children’s literature section. By this time, they had already discovered so much more than they had hoped for, and were feeling a lot more confident that when they finally got to meet a human, if they were ever required on Earth, that the whole affair would probably be more like a mundane version of babysitting rather than a Mad Hatter’s tea party. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appearances:
> 
> Peter Rabbit and family, from Beatrix Potter (1901)
> 
> Red Riding Hood, from many fairytales 
> 
> The Mad Hatter and company, from _Alice's Adventures In Wonderland_ , Lewis Carroll (1865)


	10. The Courtyard Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley treats Aziraphale to a lovely afternoon with a friend.

There had been a look in Aziraphale’s eyes as they parted ways, a slight distracted glaze as he absentmindedly stroked Crowley’s head in goodbye. He had watched the angel turn and leave with the same faraway expression on his face, already rummaging for the checklist in his pocket. Crowley waited until the angel was out of sight, walking towards the hall and his supper, before slithering into his usual hiding place in the shelves. His collection of paper notes had grown gradually, secreted away from Aziraphale when the angel was distracted or borrowed from inside books he could smell the angel’s touch on. The nest rustled as he settled in, wriggling into his stash and he used his tongue to trace across the handwritten words. 

He had found so many scattered ones now that he had cultivated a series of favourites. One was taken from one of Aziraphale’s favourite books, if the repetition of scent on its spine was any indication of the times it had been revisited. 

_ I loved him against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be. - C.D. _

Crowley could almost hear the soft voice of his Keeper breathing over the words, with a slight sadness but with the same intensity of love he was used to. This note was lovely, but there was something held back in it that always moved Crowley onto his next favourite note, a scrap of paper written with a smudge of ink along from the last word. 

_ The minute I heard my first love story, I started looking for you. - J.R. _

Something about this one made him shiver from the base of his tail all the way through to his snout, with a barely suppressed wriggle of happiness. He couldn’t describe the feelings that it brought up in him, but they made him feel like someone was whispering a secret into his ear, like he was hearing something that should be private and safe and only for him. 

Greedily he moved onto the next one. 

_ I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. - P.N. _

These words had an effect on Crowley he couldn’t understand. A kind of warmth broke out across his scales and he felt giddy with happiness from it, like some kind of glow from inside his form was filling him up with light and joy and excitement. There was a tinge of desperation in it, like a knife’s edge traced across his heart and wanted more than anything to break skin and flow into Aziraphale, to pour himself like a golden liquid across his angel and intertwine them together like stardust tossed across the sky. 

He couldn’t begin to process what these feelings meant, something about the intensity of them both scared and excited him. Instead he just settled down into the little paper cocoon and sighed heavily, his thoughts slinking back to his angel and his expression. He had looked pensive, thoughtful, but there was a certain hunger that Crowley had no doubts related to his thwarted search for sweet treats. Crowley knew the angel wasn’t fully satisfied, even after their wonderful adventure meeting creations in the forest. He would have to remedy that. 

A resolution came to him quickly, and he wasted no time in leaving his little hiding spot and slinking his way back into the library alone. He had time, he was sure, to find what his angel hungered for. 

  
  


He was late. 

Not too late, but late enough to hurry. He almost tripped on his robes hurrying up the stairs into the open sky, pushing himself away as to reach his work station just a little quicker. He glanced around as he came level with his latest project, a large twisted nebula with pockets of explosive gases that reared up in a pattern similar to a bulbous coral he had found among the aqua houses. He felt eyes on him, but only flicked his gaze across the sky to try and identify who had observed him. Seeing no one, he turned his attention back to his nebula and set his mind solely into the shades of dust he was painting. Every so often a secret smile would find its way onto his face, as thoughts about what he had found for his little Keeper crept in. He couldn’t wait for the Day to come so he could lead Aziraphale to their latest adventure. 

He knew there would be nothing but praise and adoration from his angel for his ‘little thing’, and just thinking about the delights he had in store were enough to distract him all the way through the Night. Nothing would stop him from seeing his angel’s face light up. 

  
  


When the time finally came for Aziraphale to come find Crowley in the library, Crowley was in place and almost giddy with excitement. He had struggled to get any rest during the Dawn shift, replaying how he would reveal the new adventure to Aziraphale over and over again. Each time he had imagined a more elaborate scene, a more dramatic discovery of pleasure, and with each replayed fantasy he indulgently added more nuances to Aziraphale’s joy. At first the angel merely gasped in joy, but over time that evolved into a litany of delighted praises upon Crowley, compliments and adorations heaped upon him as the angel took in every little bit of his surprise. He added to Aziraphale’s beaming smile until it was a grin, his eyes crinkled and even his chin disappearing in such pleasure as Crowley intended to give him. 

These thoughts and fantasies refused to quiet as Crowley lay in his bed, fussing and fidgeting until close to the ringing of the Dawn’s ending bell. Without waiting for cover, he simply dressed quickly and made his way towards the library with an anxious spring in his step and most possibly the most mad hair he had ever left his room with. Nothing mattered beyond arriving in the library and finding his angel. 

Now situated in his nest, he had the urge to pace maddeningly, but was limited by the books and his array of notes. His tail flicked from side to side instead, and he waited until he heard the telltale foot falls of his angel. 

“Good morning,” came the soft warm voice and all the anxiety in Crowley melted away like ice. He sighed heavily and wound his way out, still overcome with the love in Aziraphale’s eyes as they were finally reunited. 

“How is my little thing this morning?” 

Crowley blinked slowly, head reared up towards Aziraphale and wriggled in answer. He made a slow lazy loop around the angel’s ankles and flicked his tongue towards his fingers, trying his best to convey both his own happiness and the requirement that Aziraphale should follow him. 

“You clever thing, what are we doing today?”

Crowley tugged with his tail from his position still looped around Aziraphale’s feet, inclining his head towards the library corridors. Aziraphale looked at him, then up, before meeting his eyes again with a wide smile. 

“Oh, you know already, don’t you? How exciting!” 

With a triumphant hiss Crowley started to lead the way, weaving his body along the stone floor as Aziraphale followed behind him. Every so often he would look over his shoulder to find the angel still smiling at him, his eyes shining with excitement. When they came to their first fork, Crowley chose the left without hesitation and internally smirked when Aziraphale made a soft ‘oh’ noise and quickly hurried to follow. This continued for some time, with Crowley retracing his steps (or slithers) to their destination and Aziraphale following him in complete faith. Finally the library began to change around them, signalling that Crowley had been correct that he would be able to find his way back. 

At first the changes were subtle, the stone passageway giving way to large cobblestones that then descended into small slotted bricks, the groves between them spotted with moss. The bookshelves had become a rougher wood, unpolished and the books themselves went from being neatly organised into rows to being stacked and slotted into the spaces in a fairly haphazard way. Light glowed down from above them, casting shadows from the bookshelves towards the path and glowing on the covers of free standing towers of books left in the passageway which Crowley wove inbetween with ease. 

Aziraphale had stopped to bend and move these books out of the way, commenting how warm the light on his back was, when Crowley heard a noise of discovery from the angel. 

“Oh, little thing, look!” 

Crowley doubled back to where the Keeper was crouching to find the angel cupping something in two hands as he removed it from the bookshelf. Crowley came to him to peer inside his hands and found the angel was holding a small glass ornament of a mouse. It was small, close to the size it had been in the mural, and almost completely clear except for a slight tinge of pink at the nose and paws, with two bright black eyes. It was positioned standing on two hind legs, nose pointed up to investigate. Aziraphale was smiling at him, before meeting Crowley’s eyes. 

“What a sweet little object,” he said admiringly. “And to think it was just hidden away in with these books,” 

Aziraphale carefully restored the mouse to its shelf and continued to weave between the stacks of books after Crowley. They went slowly now, with the angel carefully looking out for more treasures tucked among the hodgepodge towers of books. Aziraphale pointed out a dish with a collection of perfectly round glass marbles in it, each one coloured differently. Crowley noticed a little ceramic vase only a finger’s length tall with a single sprig of lavender in it. They saw more tiny ceramic animals tucked up, as well as a sculpted bronze bull with flowers in its shaggy hair. As they made their way through, more objects appeared - a globe of the Earth they were working on which Aziraphale sent spinning on its pivot, a metal watering can, a small stack of colourful river rocks, a collection of spiky chestnut shells and their conkers nearby. Each discovery was delightful to Aziraphale, who had a compliment for every one. 

Nosing his way along the path, Crowley was happy to go at his angel’s pace and not rush their adventure, but he knew their destination would far outweigh these little discoveries. As he slithered, a flash in the corner of his eye caught his attention. On investigation he found a little space in between two books with something wedged in, just catching the sunlight beaming down on them. He looked closer. It was a gold ring, large enough for an adult. A golden signet ring with a shield in the centre and a crown of metal feathers around the band. There was a suggestion of a lion in the shield, but Crowley’s snake eyes had limitations with the smaller details. It was beautiful. 

Crowley turned to look back at his angel, who was currently looking at a small wooden puppet of a frog and telling it how wonderful it was. Crowley once again felt that pang of warmth spread through him, and turned back to the ring. It took only a quick wriggle of his tail and a tug to free the ring from the bookshelf, and he admired it in the light for a moment, before turning towards his Keeper. 

Even while completely engrossed in his attention to the puppet, Aziraphale turned towards Crowley as if he could sense his presence, and smiled widely. 

“Oh, little thing, isn’t this frog - oh my, what do you have there?”

Crowley held out the end of his tail with the ring threaded over it, inclining it towards Aziraphale’s open hands. The angel plucked it from him and regarded it carefully, turning it between his fingers. 

“Oh! Oh my!” he said with a breathy voice. “What a beautiful ring you found,” 

He met Crowley’s eyes who nudged his snout forward, brushing it against Aziraphale’s hand. 

“For me?” 

Crowley inclined his head a little, suddenly feeling bashful at the tone of disbelief in Aziraphale’s voice. The angel opened his mouth and closed it again, looking back at the ring and then at Crowley. 

“This is for me?” he repeated. It then occurred to Crowley, from the softness in Aziraphale’s voice, that his angel had never received a gift before. It didn’t occur to Crowley that, in fact, neither had he. 

“Oh, little thing,” sighed the angel, with a small smile that turned into a laugh, “Oh, you sweet thing,” 

Crowley nudged his hand again, unable to process the seemingly endless series of emotions that he saw playing out on Aziraphale’s face that happened to mirror the ones thudding through his form. All he knew was that he needed to see his angel wearing this ring, smiling that smile. 

Aziraphale slipped the ring onto his pinky ring and turned his hand out to admire it. There was a slight catch in his throat, and Crowley saw a shimmering at the corner of his eyes. 

“Oh, little thing,” he said, his eyes beseeching “I can’t begin to tell you…”

It appeared that since the first time of knowing his angel, Crowley found his Aziraphale was lost for words. The angel shook his head softly, unable to look away from the ring, except to meet Crowley’s eyes and smile again. 

“Thank you,” 

Aziraphale bent down, his hand under Crowley’s jaw and his lips brushing the top of his head in a gentle and entirely unexpected kiss. 

When Crowley looked back on this day, many years after the moment had passed, he would describe it as one of the happiest days he had ever spent in a complete state of emotional bedlam. Whilst on the exterior he had simply blinked slowly and then calmly turned to lead the way to their destination, his interior thought process had completely, and wondrously, short-circuited. 

The bookshelves fully began to give way to red bricked walls, with a series of rose bushes trellised along them. Crowley could hear Aziraphale stopping at each one to touch their petals and admire their beauty, but he didn’t stop until he reached an archway leading into a short dark tunnel of brick. At the far edge, only a short distance, was a curved metal gate with the sunlight pouring through it. This was where he waited for Aziraphale to join him. 

“I can’t tell you how excited I am, little thing,” said the angel as he walked up to the gate. “You must have found something wondrous,”

_For you, of course_ , thought Crowley, and then slipped himself through the metal railing of the gate and into the sunlight. Aziraphale opened the gate to follow, and let out a small gasp as he took in their surroundings.

They had come out into a small rectangular courtyard. Along one side ran the same red brick garden wall with more trellises of roses before joining up to the three sides of a two story red brick house. It had a thatched roof and white window frames and sills, but green shutters which were carefully pinned back to the brick walls. There was a stable door leading into the house, the top half wide open with the same green painted wood. 

In between them and the door was a small courtyard garden, with a path criss crossing across in between four raised planting beds for vegetables. Just beyond them was a very small patch of grass with a small metal table and two deckchairs, the striped fabric faded by the sunlight. Crowley didn’t stop to watch the butterfly loop over the green bean plants, or at the brilliant colours of the roses, he turned back to watch Aziraphale’s face. 

The angel had stopped in his tracks and had lifted his hands to his mouth, his eyes moving from one little piece of the whole beautiful picture to the next. His eyes were wide, and Crowley watched carefully for the moment when the angel didn’t just take it all in with his eyes, but also with his nose. 

He didn’t have to wait long before Aziraphale turned his head a little, breathed deeply through his nose and flared his nostrils with a sudden flash of his eyes. 

“ _ Ooh _ … what’s that marvellous smell?”

If Crowley had the ability to smirk in this form, he would have been grinning from ear to ear. He turned and inclined his head towards the stable door before leading Aziraphale across the middle of the courtyard. The window beside was open and just visible behind the swaying net curtain was a large pie, gentling wafting its sweet perfectly cooked scent out towards them. 

He reached the stable door, lifted himself up to flick his head over the edge and unceremoniously plopped the various long loops of himself into the kitchen of the house.

“Little thing! You shouldn’t -”

Aziraphale leaned over the door but his scolding was immediately curtailed by the sight of so many goodies. There was not one, but three pies resting on the window sill next to them, each one with painstakingly intricately cut pastry on their curved tops. Under the window sill the kitchen counters formed three sides of a square with a large metal sink underneath the window looking out towards the garden. Within the sink sat a large used mixing bowl with a series of spatulas and whisks and spoons inside it, waiting to be cleaned up. 

Beyond the area of the stove and counters the rest of the kitchen was bright, light poured across the window sill and lighting up the well scrubbed wooden table which held a large glass cake stand with a magnificent Victoria sponge cake, tall and sandwiched with jam and cream and lightly dusted with icing sugar. The rest of the table was covered in trays of gingerbread on baking parchment, a mixture of gingerbread men, snowflakes and other larger pieces. Crowley ignored the angel’s continued half hearted protests as he slithered his way across the kitchen floor and found his way onto the closest kitchen chair, making his way towards the window sill bathed in light. 

“I suppose you’re going to make me come in there and fetch you, aren’t you?” said Aziraphale finally, with an expression that looked hopeful and a tone designed to sound perfectly peeved at the whole situation. “You little fiend,” 

Crowley hissed lazily and flicked his tongue towards the angel, enjoying the performance from his little Keeper. No matter how bothered Aziraphale pretended to look at him, he could easily see the plain delight at gaining access to this place. Aziraphale’s hand had just finally stopped dithering and was reaching for the inside latch to open the door when footsteps were heard in the hallway outside of the kitchen. 

“Oh good, you found your way here finally,” came a voice, and Aziraphale’s face cleared from worry to delight again. It was the little girl from the forest, now without her red cape or basket. She was carrying a cloth of bundled herbs in his hands, her hair in tight pigtails and her feet bare. She set the herbs down and turned to Crowley, smiling. “Hello, Mr Snakey, very nice to see you again,”

Crowley inclined his head in greeting, and curled himself into a loose series of knots along the windowsill, spreading as to let his glittering scales soak up as much of the sun as possible. 

“Are you coming in? I made some lemonade,” she said, turning her attention back to the angel. 

“Oh, um, yes, well I - um,” 

Aziraphale let himself into the kitchen after a little more dithering and came to join the little girl at the table as she removed a large jug of cloudy lemonade from the large cold box in the corner of the kitchen. She dropped a trayful of ice cubes into the jug, before grabbing the herbs and stripping the mint leaves straight into the jug. Once this was all done, she poured a large glass and handed it to Aziraphale. 

“Oh, thank you so much,” he said, smiling deeply. “How did you know we were coming?” 

She smiled at him and then a little more secretively at Crowley. 

“Of course you were coming! You were invited, weren’t you? Didn’t your friend bring you directly?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed brightly at Crowley, who pretended to ignore him and flicked his tongue lazily at the small saucer of lemonade now placed in front of his snout on the sill. He knew the angel had a lot of questions, but a lot of them got stuck wanting to come out altogether in one go. 

“What’s your name?” the little girl asked him, sweeping through the surprise on his face as he opened and shut his mouth, trying to find a single question to start with. 

“I am the Keeper Aziraphale,” the angel told her, sipping his lemonade and sighing heavily. “And that fiendish little creature on the windowsill is my companion, I call him little thing, as he has yet to tell me his name,” 

She considered this for a moment. 

“He’s not very little though, is he?” 

“No I suppose not, but he is my little thing regardless,” 

She nodded, as this made sense. 

“I like your name, it’s very pretty,”

“Why thank you. May I ask your name?” 

“My grandmother calls me Dorothy, but my mummy calls me Dottie. My pa likes to call me Dot, so I don’t mind which one you want to use,”

“Oh my, so many lovely options! I suppose I might call you Dorothy, if that’s ok?” 

She nodded, finishing her glass of lemonade and pouring them both another glass. From the window Crowley continued to lazily taste his saucer, and watch with a hidden smile as his angel relaxed. 

“This is a beautiful home you have here, Dorothy. Your garden is lovely,” 

She nodded again. 

“It takes a lot of work keeping it free of weeds, but it’s worth the hard work. There’s plenty of fruits for jams and pies, although I still need to go to the market for the flour and butter for the cakes,” 

“Did you bake all of these yourself?” Aziraphale asked, lust evident in his bright eyes as his gaze lingers on each sweet treat. Dorothy smirked a little, and plucked an undecorated gingerbread man from the closest tray. She snapped him in two pieces and handed one to Aziraphale. 

“I made all of the cookies, and I helped with the cakes but my mummy did all of the pies. She’s forever baking pies for the neighbours,” 

Watching Aziraphale’s expression as he accepted the legs of the gingerbread man, Crowley knew he hadn’t heard anything she had said about the baking. His eyes had grown wide, his mouth open a little as he brought the biscuit to his face. He sniffed first, closing his eyes briefly to savour the solid tang of fresh ginger and cinnamon. Crowley held his breath as the angel bit into the soft gingerbread, knowing he would remember this moment for the rest of his existence. Aziraphale’s eyes were still shut as he chewed softly, and his eyebrows tilted in a pleading, awed expression as he gave a gentle but muffled moan of happiness. When he did open his eyes, he first looked at Dorothy and smiled as he chewed, but then his eyes found Crowley’s and held them. 

Nothing could describe the warmth pouring from the Keeper into Crowley in that moment. It was nothing short of pure adoration. He didn’t say anything, just shook his head a little in disbelief. Crowley couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of his angel glowing in his cream robes, the sunlight gleaming off his curls and his wings tucked neatly into the corner. He was just perched at the table so carefully, his feet crossed at the ankle and the biscuit still held in two hands close to his face like he was in a form of devotion, giving his own silent prayer to Her for creating the flavour he was savouring. He appeared as if he was made of pure sunlight. 

_ Perfect _ , thought Crowley softly, suddenly overcome by the swell of emotion rising up in him.  _ Just… perfect.  _

Soon enough the gingerbread man was gone, and Aziraphale had regained his voice. 

“Such marvellous creations,” he sighed. His voice was soft and gentle, like a breeze plucking at dandelion seeds. The dreamy look on his face would stay in Crowley’s memories forever. “Just like I had always hoped,” 

“Have you never had gingerbread before?” asked Dorothy, her eyes widened and a little concerned for him. 

“My dear, I have never eaten anything like that before. Angels do not tend to eat anything besides bread, honey and nectar. Sweet things, to be sure, but nothing like this,” 

“I’ve never had nectar, but we get honey from our neighbour’s bees in exchange for some of our rhubarb,” Dorothy said. “Fancy never trying gingerbread before!”

“Thank you ever so much for sharing it with me,” Aziraphale said earnestly. His hands were still clasped loosely together in front of him, giving him the appearance of an angel in praise. 

“Would you like to help me decorate some more?” Dorothy asked, already getting up from the table to start opening cupboard doors and pulling out boxes. “I have so much to do, and I would guess if you’ve never eaten gingerbread before, you’ve never decorated it either,” 

“One decorates it as well? In what fashion?”

Dorothy slid two boxes onto the kitchen table, one brimming with coloured icing in small tubes with metal nozzles, and the another stacked with pots of colourful sugary sweets Crowley recognised from their reading in the library - gumdrops, candycanes, jellied fruits, sprinkles and chocolate buttons. Aziraphale leant forward in excitement. 

“These certainly aren’t painted rocks,” he said, picking up a little pot of hard boiled sweets in bright cheerful colours. Dorothy laughed as she slid the trays towards them on the table. 

“You went to visit the Hatter, didn’t you? Isn’t he peculiar?” 

Aziraphale made a face and huffed lightly, accepting the parchment of gingerbread. 

“Peculiar is definitely one word to describe him,” he muttered, one eyebrow flicking dismissively and Crowley hissed a low laugh to himself, enjoying seeing his angel be just a smidge petty. Aziraphale’s eyes met Crowley’s again and the angel smiled so warmly at him that Crowley had to avert his gaze. Those loving looks of Aziraphale tended to overwhelm him lately. 

It turned out that even with Dorothy’s careful guidance and several quickly scribbled guides, Aziraphale was a disaster at decorating gingerbread men. He couldn’t seem to get the correct pressure to squeeze out the coloured icing, frequently squeezing too hard and sending small spurts of sugar across the table. He also seemed consistent in accidentally placing the side of his hand directly into the icing he had correctly applied, somewhat altering its original course. When it came time to add the gumdrop buttons, he couldn’t get them to unstick from his fingers and it seemed several more got eaten than were successfully applied. Crowley wasn’t sure exactly how he had managed it, but Aziraphale had also managed to get a smudge of melted chocolate on the tip of his nose as he worked, leaning so close to his work with the tip of his tongue stuck between his teeth in concentration. This was even more impressive as they so far had not even brought out the chocolate drops to the table yet. 

Watching his angel fumble and curse lightly and try so hard to do well, Crowley found himself swimming in a sea of adoration. How could a single form contain as much charm and sweetness as his little Keeper? How could Crowley’s form, restricted as it was to his serpent shape, manage to lock away the sheer force of devotion he felt towards this silly little angel? 

Next to her hard working student Dorothy worked steadily, laughing gently with Aziraphale, correcting and encouraging whilst somehow managing to decorate two whole trays of gingerbread men and snowflakes while Aziraphale smudged his way through one. When they were finished, he watched her slide the trays into a cupboard with lots of smaller shelves for setting biscuits, including the larger undecorated pieces. 

“What are these for?” Aziraphale asked as he handed her several trays of geometric shapes. 

“These make a gingerbread house, I make the same one every year but always do the decorations differently,” 

Aziraphale’s face was a picture. 

“A gingerbread house?” he practically squeaked. “That sounds marvellous! Are you not making it right now?”

Crowley fought back another little laughing hiss, his angel was so precocious when he wanted to be. The little hopeful pout on the Keepers face was turned towards him again, but instead of dissolving into a warm smile, the pout turned into a little scowl and he wrinkled his nose at Crowley. 

“Quiet, you,” he said, “Don’t think just because I think you’re the best and most wonderful little thing in all creation, I won’t come over there and teach you some manners, you little fiend,” 

Crowley hissed again, this time with a wide grin on his snake features, and wriggled his head a little from side to side without breaking eye contact. It was a playful challenge, and he saw Aziraphale about to take the bait except Dorothy had turned back and tugged on his sleeve. 

“Ignore him, he’s a teasing snake. The gingerbread needs a little longer to set before I start putting it all together,” she said. “You can help me in the garden instead,” 

Aziraphale looked stricken for a moment, looking at all of the sweet treats still in the kitchen untasted, but he pulled himself together and nodded. By the back door she slipped on her garden shoes and a dusty pinny, handing another larger one to Aziraphale, who must be said looked absolutely splendid in pink. Crowley gave up his sunbathing spot to follow them lazily back into the garden. He decided the best way to enjoy the afternoon gardening when he didn’t have hands to help was to weave his way in between Aziraphale’s legs when he wasn’t looking, and get in his way at every opportunity. 

There were a lot of opportunities. 

“You really are trying my patience, little thing,” the angel told him, lifting his middle section out of the way of a large patch of ripe strawberries. As he plucked them free he offered one to Crowley who lapped his tongue lazily at it, before twisting away to reveal his crimson belly. Aziraphale popped the strawberry in his mouth and moaned lightly, his fingers grazing along the ridge of scales in thought. 

“Nearly the colour of strawberries,” he commented, one fingertip pressing to Crowley’s sunwarm scales. “Not quite raspberry either. Maybe a little more like cherry? Hard to say. Either way, cherry or not, will you  _ please _ get out of the way?” 

Crowley hissed in pleasure, and continued to wriggle his belly up to the sun. He would have continued with this campaign of annoyance all the way through the harvesting of the sugar snap peas had Aziraphale not picked him up entirely, his two hands scooping him up and placing him behind his shoulders. Aziraphale was clearly a lot stronger than he looked at first glance, and Crowley found his head spinning a little as he realised the angel had draped his long body across his shoulders much like a feather boa. The realisation that he was now in a perfect prime position to both completely revel in his angel’s company and also utterly annoy him was a very pleasant one. 

“Is he always that active?” asked Dorothy a few minutes later as Aziraphale attempted to weed the tomato plants with a very friendly snake winding the tip of his tail through his white curls one by one. Aziraphale sighed critically, one hand going to brush a thumb against Crowley’s jaw absentmindedly.

“Hardly ever. I suppose it’s all this sun and excitement,” he commented as Crowley’s tail now moved and formed a delightful dastardly handlebar moustache across his upper lip. “Absolute little fiend,” 

_ Worth it _ , thought Crowley. 

After they had finished in the vegetable patch, Dorothy directed them to the deckchairs under the umbrella. Aziraphale sank down into it with a satisfied groan, slipping Crowley off from his shoulders and depositing him underneath the chair to hide in the shade under his robes. 

“That’s enough sun for you, you little hedonist,” he told him, unable to fight the smile on his face. 

_ Oh, I’m the hedonist? _ Thought Crowley, smirking.  _ Pot, meet kettle.  _

Despite this he found that this lovely spot of shade suited him very well. He arranged himself into a gentle coil, nestled his head under one of his many loops and closed his eyes. Above him Aziraphale sighed heavily and smiled, taking in the garden in the afternoon sun. He stretched his feet out, cracked his neck and stretched his wings out behind him until the primary feathers brushed against the brickwork. 

“You have such large wings,” 

Dorothy had returned, bringing a fresh jug of lemonade out to them. Aziraphale accepted his glass from her with thanks, suddenly aware of what effect the sun and the exertion of weeding had played on his form. 

“Yes, but in this form they tend to be a little on the smaller side, for a principality at least,” 

“You mean sometimes they’re bigger?” asked Dorothy, her face a little confused as she took the deckchair next to him. Aziraphale watched a butterfly amble through the tomato plants.

“Yes, in my true form they’re extremely large in relation to you, but in relation to an archangel they’re not very big. I suppose it’s all about perspective,” he said, sipping his lemonade. He jumped a little as he felt a tickle from his left wing, the one closest to Dorothy. She had reached out and was running her fingers along his large primary feathers. Below them Crowley’s eyes opened. 

“They’re so soft,” 

“Oh, yes, um, well,” stammered Aziraphale, “It’s just that… well, you see,” 

Crowley lifted his head, unsure if he should do something. Aziraphale’s flustered state was not Dorothy’s fault, for she had no idea what her simple touches meant. An angel’s wings were very sensitive, even in the form Aziraphale was in. To touch them so carefully was a very personal act, as preening them was usually done in solitude or with a trusted companion. In the correct context, touching another angel’s wings would be considered an intimate act. It was hard to say what it might mean to have a human touch them, but it was obvious from the way Aziraphale stumbled over his sentences that he wasn’t sure himself. 

“It’s just that I’m so terribly ticklish,” he finally told her, twitching his wings away and folding them carefully behind the deckchair, his primaries crossing over very close to where Crowley lay curled. 

_ Good save _ , thought Crowley. 

They continued to sit out in the garden for some time. The sound of Aziraphale and Dorothy’s soft voices as they chatted lulled Crowley along with the buzzing of bees and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. It seemed the perfect space for a nap, and Crowley didn’t fight sleep as it began to trickle over him. 

“So why would your grandmother live so far into the forest if you have such a lovely home here?” he heard Aziraphale ask, the clink of ice cubes in his glass. 

“She likes the privacy, and there’s always something exciting going on,”

“Oh, yes, I can understand that, new adventures can be quite thrilling after all,” 

“Do you like adventures?”

“Oh yes, of course. In fact…,” 

Aziraphale’s soft voice describing their days out was exactly the kind of lullaby Crowley would have dreamt up for himself when sleep evaded him. The angel had such a gentle voice, one made for lulling across syllables and almost dancing through his words. Add to this the wonderful fact that Aziraphale was endlessly praising his little thing’s uncanny ability to find the best new adventures each time, and Crowley was a very happy and very indulgent snake, who also happened to be completely and blissfully asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes: 
> 
> _I loved him against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be._ \- Charles Dickens, Great Expectations (1860), _slightly_ altered.
> 
> _The minute I heard my first love story, I started looking for you._ \- Mawlana Jalal-al-Din Rumi, The Illuminated Rumi
> 
> _I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees._ \- Pablo Neruda, poet


	11. The Picnic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale have a picnic, and Crowley gets in trouble.

When Crowley woke, it didn’t make much sense to him. Firstly, his form confused him. He had practised his napping skills while in serpent form, avoiding anymore unintentional transformations that might reveal himself, but rousing from such a deep sleep whilst still arranged into this form was utterly bizarre. To accompany it, he appeared to be in semi darkness and inside a cramped space that jousled him and swayed in a motion that was rather alarming. 

He rippled a little, trying to figure out what he’d ended up inside of, and started wriggling his face up towards what he hoped was an exit and an explanation. His snout found a gap in what seemed to be a muslin cloth over him and he emerging, wincing, into the light. 

“Oh, hello there little thing,” 

He found himself looking up at his angel from the perspective of the large wicker basket the angel was carrying in one hand, swaying with each step. Inside the basket, Crowley had been tucked in with a loose white cloth that had several bunches of herbs tied and placed on top of it. He eyed the basket cautiously, flicking his tongue with a certain degree of uncertainty. 

“It’s tremendously lucky you’re so streamlined, I wasn’t sure you’d fit in there but somehow it’s like it was made to fit you!”

_ Or I was made to fit it. How miraculous…  _ thought Crowley, with a certain amount of annoyance at his subconscious divinity. It was interesting to him, despite Aziraphale’s lack of curiosity at how a seemingly ordinary - albeit charmingly clever and stunning beautiful - snake could alter his size at will, that Aziraphale seemed strong enough to carry Crowley’s entire serpentine weight in one hand with absolutely no effort. In his other hand he was carrying another basket, which clinked a little as he walked. He knew his Keeper was strong, but something about how effortless the small angel made it seem was oddly affecting. Crowley’s virtues as an angel differed from his companions in quite a few ways, favouring speed and a few other tricks above strength, and he had to admit to himself that whenever his knees might be in his current form, they were a little weak at the thought of his angel being so strong and powerful.

“I hope you don’t mind being bundled up, little thing, it’s just that you looked so sweet all curled up that I didn’t want to wake you,” Aziraphale was explaining. They were no longer in the garden with Dorothy, but back in the woods somewhere unfamiliar. Wherever Aziraphale was going, he wasn’t hesitant about the direction. 

Crowley considered wriggling free and leaving the basket to stretch his spine, but a glance at the ground made him reconsider. It looked cold and mossy and uninviting, whereas his basket was warm and the gentle rocking motion was so soothing… 

“You can sleep a little more, if you want to. I can wake you when we’re there, little thing,” came Aziraphale’s voice gently, adding to the seductive pull of sleep that trickled through Crowley and slowly pulled him back into the recesses of the basket. 

He didn’t need to worry, if his angel was with him. He could just sleep a little more… 

  
  


The basket being placed carefully down didn’t wake him. Neither did the rustling of fabric, or the clinking of a bottle being unwrapped, or the smell of sweet treats. What woke him was a soft hand reaching into the basket and the fingers running along the side of his jaw in a gentle caress. 

“Come see what we have, little thing,” 

Lifting his head, he didn’t let that hand go, immediately sliding up and along the inside of Aziraphale’s wrist to peek out over the edge of the basket. Aziraphale had walked them back to the bandstand, in the first garden they had found together. A late afternoon sun was filtering through the greenhouse windows high above them, colouring all of the flowers with a glorious golden amber light. The birds had retreated a little, but he could still hear their songs flitting through the air. Aziraphale had spread a blanket in the middle of the bandstand for them, and had unpacked many of the sweet treats from earlier. 

“Dorothy was so kind, she insisted we have a little bit of everything,” Aziraphale was explaining as Crowley extracted himself from the basket. “She gave me the blanket, and explained exactly how one should do this - she said it’s a picnic, and we should have one all of our very own!” 

Dorothy had certainly delivered on that promise. She had packed them a small feast, starting with a large glass bottle of the lemonade and two glasses. He could see a handful of gingerbread men and iced snowflake biscuits, two huge slices of the Victoria sponge, and even a large piece of apple pie unwrapped and sitting on its beeswax cloth. There were a small selection of sandwiches cut into small triangles and quite a lot of fruit of many colours. 

Looking at the whole scene, Crowley thought to himself he had never seen such an inviting space - not just the blanket, or the food, but his angel smiling and licking his lips at their bounty, before looking back at Crowley and smiling even wider. Everything in the moment seemed so perfect. 

“Oh, little thing, you look so charming, so dressed up for our little picnic,” 

Crowley flicked his tongue, puzzled, but looked down and realised that falling asleep near a young girl clearly came with risks - he was wearing a large white ribbon around his neck, tied in a large flouncy bow. It wasn’t really his style...

“Such a handsome snake,” Aziraphale said, reaching out his hands to correct either side of the bow gently, before lifting his hands and cupping Crowley’s face in them. 

Ok, the bow could stay. For now. 

Their picnic, hopefully the first of many, went rather well. Since both of them were fairly new to the whole experience, there was an uncertainty to the exact order of events, but they figured it out. Aziraphale lounged along the side of the blanket, looking more relaxed than Crowley had ever seen - even when fully absorbed into one of his beloved books. His delightful ankles were crossed where his legs were free from his voluminous robes, giving Crowley the perfect place to coil his tail over, his scales resting comfortably against the Keeper’s skin. Crowley got to watch closely as Aziraphale chose his next bite with care, his hand hovering over the grapes, before moving towards the sponge cake, but then dancing over to the iced biscuits. Every bite was savoured to its full extent, with Aziraphale holding it reverently between his fingers to bring it to his face, to breathe in the scent, before taking just the smallest taste. Crowley could practically feel the angel’s satisfaction as the flavour filled his senses, the first small bite turning into another, and then another, each accompanied by a sound. A moan, a small gasp, a smacking of lips. Aziraphale’s eyes would drift shut as he experienced the moment with his full attention, and Crowley couldn’t tear his own away - he wanted to remember every moment of ecstasy the angel found as he ate. 

Throughout it all, even when Aziraphale was shaking his head slightly in disbelief at the food, he would open his eyes to find Crowleys and smile indulgently at him. The praises of finding such a bounty for them both went unspoken, but firmly felt. Nothing was said, nothing needed saying. 

It got better. Even as Aziraphale sampled, he never forgot his little companion. He would break a piece off, often the best bit, and offer it to Crowley who would eagerly accept it. It turned out that eating like a snake was not the most elegant process, but he managed to make it work. Aziraphale was patient with him, holding his fingers steady as Crowley figured out how to actually get the food into his mouth. It was a worthwhile effort, as everything Aziraphale fed him was an explosion of flavour, the sweetness and the richness of the food were indescribable.

The bandstand they were in seemed to be lit with a series of stringed lights that emitted a soft and romantic glow over their afternoon together. Crowley didn’t notice as the light around them faded into a pink hue, before tinging with purple and descending into the evening. All he could see was his glowing angel’s happiness as they lay sprawled on the blanket with the remnants of their picnic around them. Aziraphale was laying on his back, one arm under his head to prop himself up a little. Crowley was still partially arranged across his legs, but had graduated up onto his thighs and his head resting on the angel’s delightful midsection. Aziraphale’s robes were becoming crumpled under his steady weight but the angel didn’t seem to notice, or care. Aziraphale was smiling as he dipped his finger into the remains of the pot of  cream (to accompany the handfed strawberries, now all happily consumed) over  and over again and offered it to Crowley who lapped up the droplet gratefully. 

It was, in his opinion, the best way to consume anything. 

“Oh, little thing, how happy I am,” sighed Aziraphale. “To think, I was living my life without you in it for so long,” 

Crowley rippled gently in delight, pressing his head into Aziraphale’s palm. 

“I never want to leave here,” 

Crowley flicked his tongue around Aziraphale’s thumb in a gesture of agreement. Why would he be anywhere else when he could be looped so lazily over his angel? Aziraphale sighed again, a little critically to himself. 

“I suppose they will have missed me at dinner, but how can one return to the same old honey and bread after such lovely food?” 

Crowley froze. Dinner. That meant the Day bell had already sounded. That meant the Night shift would have already started. He pulled away from Aziraphale’s hand and twisted to look beyond their bandstand, and yes, the sky was dark, the garden was asleep. He missed the bell. He was late. 

Oh Lord, he was late  _ again. _

Aziraphale hadn’t noticed the sudden tension in Crowley’s body, he was too busy lazily tracing a finger through the crumbs of the gingerbread men, looking for another little taste to make the whole thing last just a little bit longer. Crowley slid his tail free of the angel’s warmth, and the sudden contact with the floor felt cold and harsh against his scales compared to the angel, even through the blanket. 

“Little thing?”

Crowley realised a little too late that Aziraphale was talking to him, asking him a question, but he didn’t hear him as he was staring back into the library. He turned back to the angel, who had rolled to his side and was resting one impossibly warm hand on Crowley’s back. 

“Are you alright?” 

Crowley hissed gently, ducking his head and moving to press his body against Aziraphale briefly. He had hoped it to have been a comforting motion, as well as a goodbye. He had never been the one to leave first in their meetings. 

“You have to go? Are you sure? You could stay,” 

Crowley hesitated. The tone in Aziraphale’s voice was almost painful, the gentle ache of loss at being left alone. He looked back and that was another mistake. The Keeper’s eyes were wide and his brows were tilted in that pleading pout that Crowley knew would get him into so much trouble. It was so easy to return to the angel’s side, press his head against the angel’s cheekbone and just hold there for a second. 

“Tomorrow? Please?” 

He met Aziraphale’s eyes, so close to his own. Crowley bowed his head a little, of course. Of course tomorrow. He pressed his head up against the angel’s skin again, and flickered his tongue out, tasting just the smallest shimmer of a tear caught in Aziraphale’s eyelashes. 

It took all of his limited self control to pull away again, away from that warmth.

He didn’t look back, because he knew that if he had to see the sight of his little Keeper sitting under those sparkling lights, surrounded by their sleeping garden, watching him go, he would never leave his side again. 

Aziraphale may have been strong, but Crowley was  _ fast _ . 

He slithered out of the garden swiftly, finding his way through the stacks with the same confidence that led him to find it in the first place. He had to be quick, he didn’t know what hour it was, if he would be noticed. Once out of the bookshelves, he regained his limbs and tangled his hair away from his face as he hurried. He didn’t bother to read the clock at the far end of the hall, he just grabbed the hem of his robes and ran. 

He climbed the stairs two at a time, one hand on the handrail to hold himself steady. He was counting under his breath as he ran, just lightly counting the stairs, waiting to reach the top for when he could push himself forward off into the Heavens. 

In the back of his mind, behind the numbered steps, a little voice reminded him over and over that he was late, that he was in trouble, that this would somehow ruin everything. 

He pushed the voice away, nearly at the top, rounding the last twist and - 

He stopped in his tracks, body pulled back to stop him crashing into the angel standing at the top of the staircase and blocking his path. He shut his mouth quickly to pull back the gasp of air, but there was no way to the angel a few steps above him hadn’t heard him. 

“Crowley. Finally,” 

The angel was facing away from him, standing and staring out at the scattered unit of Starmakers. His arms were crossed stiffly and his wings were primly and very tightly held against his body, making him appear as a statue. Crowley bit the inside of his cheek a little, fighting the urge to fidget. He wanted to slink away but there was nowhere to go. 

“Care to explain yourself?” 

The angel turned slowly. He was wearing the same dark blue robes as Crowley, but had a second overcoat of thick sapphire blue velvet hung across his shoulders and draping down across his chest, embroidered with small silver stars. 

“Sariel, I -” Crowley started and stopped, finding the words dying on the end of his tongue. He tried to keep eye contact with the angel, but Sariel’s impenetrable gaze made him uneasy. Everything about his stillness made Crowley’s own disarray more obvious. Crowley cleared his throat, reaching to adjust his robes, pulling his unruly hair back. He was aware that his face was flushed from running, his braid tangled and his feet still dusty from the library floor. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, trying his best to quell the thunder in his chest. “It won’t happen again,” 

Sariel regarded him a moment, those grey eyes travelling to observe the details that Crowley’s adjusting had sought to hide. One ash white eyebrow raised a little. 

“You understand what it is we are trying to achieve here, correct Crowley?” 

Crowley’s gaze flickered behind Sariel, to the Heavens, before flicking back. 

“Yes, of course, the Great Pl-”

“You understand we have a schedule, Crowley?”

Crowley didn’t like the way Sariel said his name. It made the skin on the back of his neck shift as if he still had his scales. 

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry-”

“Apologies don’t mean much when you’re not doing as you have been told, Crowley. She gave Her orders, and we are to follow them,” 

“Yes, of course-”

“Do you not like following orders, Crowley?”

“No! I mean, yes, of course I follow Her-”

“You understand your place in this design, Her design, don’t you, Crowley?” 

Crowley fought the urge to grit his teeth. 

“Yes, Sariel,” 

The angel nodded, his eyes narrowing just a little as he observed Crowley. Crowley made a conscious effort to release the tension in his shoulders, lifting his chin a little to avoid looking as if he were sulking. He tried to clear any expression off his face except for a suitably contrite arrangement. 

“You must remember your duty in this unit, Crowley. You must remember why you are here, and Who you are here to serve. You must remember that there is no one more important than Her, and Her Great Plan,” 

Crowley nodded, wishing more than anything that he could get this over with. 

“There is no one other than Her, Crowley. No one else,” 

Crowley nodded again, ignoring the tension that was creeping through his back again, twisting into his stomach. 

“Say it, Crowley,” ordered Sariel, his eyes refusing the release Crowley until the angel was suitably chastised. The stillness in Sariel’s body seemed to make him taller, his form bearing over Crowley in a way that seemed to obscure the stars behind him. 

“No one else,” repeated Crowley, hearing the own bitterness in his own voice. He cleared his throat, and said it again. The tension in his stomach refused to release. “No one else,” 

There was a long moment as Sariel’s eyes bored into Crowley, and the Starmaker had a horrendous thought that maybe the senior angel could read him like one of Aziraphale’s books. That he could look into Crowley’s chest and see his heart tangled up in a nest of love notes.

Sariel finally nodded, and released Crowley from his gaze, taking one step back to allow Crowley to pass him. 

“Get to work,” 

Crowley didn’t trust his voice, feeling the bitterness in the back of his throat again. He didn’t want to think about Sariel’s words, but they wriggled and squirmed and dug their way into him. He moved to his area without looking around him, avoiding the gaze of any of his unit who may have noticed his late coming, seen his scolding, witnessed his shame. 

None of that mattered. 

His mind was in a whirlwind, but nothing was landing long enough to settle and form in his brain. He reached for his brushes, his eyes seeing nothing as he was consumed in the tension that had seized his insides. 

Did Sariel know about how he had been spending his days? About the library? Did that mean others knew? Had he been seen going in and out of the library? Did they know about the garden? The books? Aziraphale? 

He drew in a shaky breath, the paintbrush in his hand static. He glanced to the side through his hair and saw an angel far to his right watching him. It wouldn’t do to give them even more to see. 

Pulling himself together as best he could, he drew himself up to his full height. He tossed his hair over his shoulder and schooled his expression into a focussed neutral, and began to paint. 

  
  



	12. The Attic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale looks after Crowley after a bad night apart. 
> 
> This is my favourite chapter so far, this was the scene I built most of the story around.

The Dawn before the Day saw Crowley unable to sleep. 

He had done exactly as he had been told during the Night, he had continued to paint and blend and throw ink around until his little area of the Heavens beamed with colour. Somehow by becoming so utterly focussed on creating a beautiful mess, he was able to keep himself from descending into the mess left in Sariel’s wake in his own mind. 

Come the Dawn, and that changed. For the first time in his memory, sitting alone in his room felt like some form of binding trap, a form of suffocation that did nothing to ease his thoughts. The silence was almost overwhelming. 

Usually Crowley valued his privacy, thoroughly enjoying his hours left unbothered in his room to do as he pleased. Typically what he pleased was to sleep, to stay wrapped up in his own mind and glide wherever his dreams took him. More recently it had been reliving his days with Aziraphale, but instead of his serpent form, he would join Aziraphale as himself. He would see the Keeper smile up at him, standing a few inches above him. He would answer Aziraphale’s questions with witty remarks, making the angel laugh. Sometimes annoying him like a little fly in his ear, just to have the angel scold him, but always to smile again. Maybe even to reach out and cup his jaw the same as he did with his serpent form. Press a kiss to his forehead and call him his ‘little thing’. 

These dreams were a secret, even to Crowley himself. He would wake and remember the best fragments of these visions, but wouldn’t let himself dwell too close to them. There was a feeling trapped underneath these sweet dreams that he didn’t want to get too close to, a sweet kind of sadness that threatened to overwhelm him. 

This Dawn was nothing like his others. This Dawn saw him restless and jittery and tense. He laid on his bed and no matter how often he twisted and turned, rearranged his limbs, refluffed the pillows - sleep never came, and the stupid questions in his head didn’t leave him alone. 

He even got up halfway through the Dawn to go back to the washroom and have a long selfish shower in light, but it did little to improve his mood. He even pulled his wings out into the open and soaked them thoroughly and a little roughly. Unfortunately he may have been a little too rough, and upon stepping out of the stream of light he found his wings in total disarray. He ground his teeth a little, using his hands to try and coax the light out to drain away but his feathers seemed resolute to stay as messy as his mind was. 

Returning to his room, at least he now had something to occupy the remaining empty hours. He sat cross legged on his rumpled sheets and began the methodical task of combing through his feathers one by one and resealing the crisp edges, whisking the traces of light out to bleed away into the air and laying them flat against each other. His fingers worked quickly, his eyes almost glazed over and unfocussed. Every so often his fingers would pause against a feather and he would pinch it, giving it a slight tug to test its hold. The small twinges of pain did little to refocus him, but he moved on until he found one that was loose. He pinched the base carefully and gave a swift hard tug, and the feather slipped free without much resistance. 

Crowley turned the feather over in his fingers critically. His brow was furrowed and his eyes stared, but he was still unseeing. 

What did Sariel mean with his unsettling words? Was what Crowley doing in the library somehow against Her plan? If Crowley was doing wrong, would his actions lead to Aziraphale as well? Could Aziraphale also be in trouble? 

He hoped not. He wouldn’t let Aziraphale get into any trouble, he certainly wouldn’t lead him astray if that was what Sariel had been implying. 

If Sariel had been implying anything…? Maybe Crowley was misinterpreting everything. Maybe he wasn’t. 

Crowley made a frustrated sound, somewhere between a hiss and a growl. The feather in his hands found itself twisted by strong fingers, and Crowley shifted, lifting the corner of his mat up from the floor and tucking the feather away with a great many more cast out feathers. 

He quickly continued with his second wing, and found no reprieve from his thoughts. 

Aziraphale had asked him to come back the next Day, he had said it so sweetly. Crowley found he had to move on quickly from thinking of the little angel’s face as he had asked, he couldn’t picture the soft glimmer in Aziraphale’s eyes as he asked him not to go without feeling a grip take control of his chest. 

He shook his head, trying to wriggle away from the blue of Aziraphale’s gaze. He had asked him to meet him again, to return to him. Should he? With Sariel’s words in his head he knew he should stay away. He should stay here, alone, in his room. If he was going to protect Aziraphale - if Aziraphale needed protecting, Crowley should do it. He should stay away. 

But he didn’t want to. And Aziraphale didn’t want him to. 

Another errant feather, another strong tug but this one came away with a jolt of pain that stung its way through into Crowley’s shoulder and he hissed. A shiver passed through his wing, and ended up vibrating through his chest as well as he regarded the feather. A small point of red gleamed on the tip of the quill. He dipped his finger tip into the space now vacated and felt a small point of wetness, pulling back to see a smear of blood. 

Crowley sighed heavily, sitting back and feeling his wings shunt down in defeat. He was exhausted. He needed sleep. He needed rest, calm, comfort. 

He wanted Aziraphale. More than ever, he wanted his angel.

Even up to the point when he finally found his angel, he had been unable to rest his thoughts. He went back and forth internally without pause, arguing to stay away, even just for a day, but then following his feet back towards the library without hesitation. Lurking near the entrance to the library he had made to walk away at least twice, but each time slowed to a halt before moving back towards that unassuming doorway. 

Entering the library and changing forms did nothing to quieten the noise in his head, and he practically felt like tying himself into knots to cope with the aching sick feeling he couldn’t escape. He was late, even if an exact time had not been agreed. He would always be here before the Keeper, but several hours had passed since Aziraphale would have entered the library and found the corridors empty. 

The guilt of Aziraphale’s disappointment weighed on Crowley heavier than any of the worries and fears that had made themselves known all through the Dawn. 

Slithering his way through the library, he didn’t think of anything other than Aziraphale, knowing that the library would lead him to his destination. Even knowing this, turning the corner and seeing the angel’s form was a welcome relief. Crowley felt something inside him start to break a little, releasing the slow trickling warmth meant only for his angel. 

Aziraphale would make everything better. 

He approached his angel, already feeling some of the weight peel away from him like a second skin. Aziraphale was facing away from him, sitting with his wings left lazily sprawled behind him. His shoulders were low, his head dipped down towards his chest. Crowley came closer, flicking his tongue and tasting just a tinge of salt in the air. Just then Aziraphale gave a great sniff, and lifted a hand to rub at his face and sighed. A sigh so heavy and weary that Crowley felt it inside his very being. 

He hissed gently, and came forward to nudge his head against the Keepers knee in greeting. 

“Oh! Oh, little thing!” 

Aziraphale’s voice was rough, a little choked but so warm towards Crowley. Looking up at the angel he could see his eyes were a little red, the beginning of dark circles now being banished away by a wide crinkling smile. 

“There you are, little thing,” he said. A flicker of gold caught Crowley’s eye and he looked just in time to see Aziraphale close his hand around the ring Crowley had given him. He had been twisting it between his fingers, the list and pile of books forgotten in front of him. 

“I… I waited for you, but…” his voice trailed off as he slipped the ring back onto his finger. “But nevermind, you’re here and-”

The weight of guilt that had been peeling away from Crowley was back. He laid his head on the angel’s knee and coiled his body closer to the angel, curving under his knee and around his legs in an effort to hug the angel close. 

Nothing could describe the wretchedness he felt. 

Aziraphale’s hands came to Crowley’s head, both hands reaching to gently cup him under the jaw and lift him, forcing him to meet the angel’s sweet blue eyes. 

“My little thing, what is the matter?” he said softly. So softly. 

Crowley blinked slowly, trying to look away from Aziraphale, maybe to look away from the guilt he felt, but that wasn’t possible. He felt a shift of Aziraphale’s thumb against his scales and realised the angel was brushing away what could only be described as a tear. 

“Oh, my sweet thing, please don’t,” 

Crowley couldn’t take this. Making Aziraphale wait for him was bad enough, but to make Aziraphale feel sorry for  _ him _ ! He pushed forward, along Aziraphale’s arm and brought his coils with him, crawling into Aziraphale’s embrace without a second thought. The angel’s hands guided him close, bringing his tail up onto his lap and holding his long body across both arms, Crowley’s head now laid against his shoulder and resting with his snout just shy of his right ear.

“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” 

Aziraphale’s voice was a gentle caress just behind Crowley’s head, and a cheek was pressed down against him. He could feel Aziraphale’s fingers stroke soothingly against his ribs, and he felt another tear slip free and fade into Aziraphale’s robes. 

“Oh, my sweet little thing,” 

Such softness only She could create in the form of Aziraphale’s voice. 

A hand moved away from him, the other still holding Crowley’s form in place as he gathered his few things together, pulling his list into his pocket, capping his ink. Books were slotted back into shelves. Then Aziraphale was standing, and his arms were both around Crowley firmly, hoisting his coils into an arrangement where Crowley was looped over him and still cradled close to his chest. 

“I know where we need to go, my little thing. I know just the place,” 

Aziraphale moved quickly but smoothly, holding Crowley carefully as he navigated the corridors. He would stop to check around corners every so often, holding his breath, but they didn’t stay still for long. Crowley gave up trying to follow Aziraphale’s movements and let himself be carried. 

“We’re almost there, little thing. I may need you to hold onto me so I may climb,” 

Crowley twisted his head out of the opening of Aziraphale’s robes by his neck, where his snout had been comfortably nestled against Aziraphale’s bare collarbone. They didn’t seem to be anywhere in particular, just another series of corridors that met in a six way crossing point, with a single pillar of books in the centre. If he had thought about it, he would have recognised passing through this intersection at another time, but he didn’t. Instead he curved his head over Aziraphale’s shoulder, easing his body over the Keeper and placing more of his weight on his shoulders and the joints of his wings to allow his arms to release the main weight of his body. Aziraphale’s hands came to greet him the other side of his body, guiding Crowley until he was once against tucked around his neck with his nose resting almost entirely in the crop of milky curls under his right ear. 

Aziraphale checked their surroundings again, before stepping forward and sliding a few books free on the middle shelf of the pillar in the centre of the crossway. He reached into the dark bookcase behind and Crowley heard a soft click, followed by a groan of hardwood that isn’t used to moving, and the slow creak of hinges. He lifted his head to watch as Aziraphale swung the side of the pillar away, a secret door made of curved shelves that revealed a ladder in the very centre, leading up into somewhere unknown. But of course it was known to Aziraphale. 

The Keeper stepped inside and turned to pull the shelf back into place, tugging it until another soft click was heard. Inside the pillar it was a little bit of a squeeze with both Aziraphale and Crowley tangled together, not to mention Aziraphale’s wings which were probably the dustiest and more untidy Crowley had ever seen them. 

Aziraphale, unbothered by the small space and its lack of wing room, reached into his pocket and drew out a small glass ball. He held it to his lips and blew on it gently, igniting the pocket of light trapped inside it. Crowley had seen these orbs before, a smaller variety of the orbs that lit the rest of the library and other places in Paradise. Aziraphale looked up and tossed the orb in a confident and straight throw directly up. It didn’t slow, but merely continued to rise up the long passageway. 

Aziraphale took ahold of the ladder and began to climb, moving steadily. There was only a soft glow of light above them to suggest where this ladder might go, but it seemed such a far way off. Crowley tucked himself closer to Aziraphale and watched as the small patch of light grew closer. After some time - they must have climbed a few long way - Aziraphale stopped just below the orb and reached out. His fingers felt at the wooden panel above them until they found a latch, turned it, and he pushed open a trapdoor. The thud it made hitting the floor beyond them made both of them wince a little, but it was that solid kind of noise that would be absorbed through all that dark wood and heavy parchment. Crowley’s tongue flicked as Aziraphale pocketed the orb and climbed up further. The only thing he smelt at first, aside from Aziraphale’s warmth, was dust. 

They had come out in a room made from slatted wooden boards, with a sloped ceiling forming a pyramid shape, much like the attic of an old house. There were boxes around them, stacked onto each other. An old clock lay on its side behind the trapdoor, the pendulum lolling out of its case like a tongue. A dress mannequin with a dusty feather hat stood nearby. Crowley wasn’t sure what to make of this place. 

Aziraphale didn’t say anything, he bent down (taking care to hold Crowley’s tail clear ) and shifted the trapdoor back down into the floor with another creak of wood. He turned and followed the only path Crowley could see not covered in a layer of dust through the boxes and towards the triangular outer wall of the room. 

Now Crowley understood why they had come. 

At the far end there was an enormous arched window, the outer sections panelled in old stained glass colours and free of spiderwebs. Light poured in through the glass, an unfocussed foggy kind of light. It illuminated the space Crowley knew that Aziraphale had created for himself, and was now sharing with Crowley. 

It looked like Aziraphale hadn’t really known what to do with the furniture already up in this attic. He had brought over what looked like a very lumpy and threadbare chaise lounge to one side, the pale green silk and embroidered cherry blossoms on its cushions having seen much better days. The large spring jutting out from the seat meant it probably wasn’t the angel’s first choice of seat. Instead there was some sort of bedding mat under the window, similar to the ones in their rooms, but thicker and a little less appealing. Heaped on top of the mat were a collection of cushions that maybe once had been vibrantly patterned, but now resembled old teabags in various colours, a few worn holes here or there spilling out clumpy stuffing. 

“It’s not much…” Aziraphale said softly, walking over to his little nest with a slight air of embarrassment. “I mean, there’s not much to be done-” 

Crowley slipped free of Aziraphale’s shoulders and wriggled his way onto the floor. He regretted it immediately, the wooden slats of the floor were cold and uncomfortable even without the comparison to his angel’s soft touch. He ignored them, slithering over to the little nest and climbing up into it. He coiled himself neatly, before looking back towards Aziraphale with a pleased little hiss. 

Aziraphale had followed him, and was smiling at him with a slight sparkle in his eyes. 

“Oh, you like it,” he beamed, crouching down to sit on the mat and smooth some of the pillows out. He pursed his lips and blew across the cushions carefully, the breath that left his lungs carried a trace of miracle to it. The dust and greyness peeled away from them, bleeding away and leaving behind Aziraphale’s vision for his little hidden space - a stylishly comfortable chaise lounge, a tasteful raised floor mat and an eclectic array of throw pillows. 

Crowley looked around him at the transformed space before looking back at the angel, who was steadily avoiding his gaze and rearranging the pillows. Crowley stared at him. 

“What?” he asked innocently, his eyes flicking to Crowley and then away again, but that little smirk was back and a slight tinge to his cheeks. “It’s not cheating, it’s  _ restoration _ ,” 

Crowley hissed a small chuckle, moving to make room for the Keeper who was now finding the most comfortable spot on the mat, his back to the window and his wings laid gracefully over the pile of cushions to allow him to lounge in a very practised and almost indulgent way. Crowley moved to allow Aziraphale’s feet to stretch out along the mat, noting the way the angel’s toes wriggled a little in delight to be stretching out in such a languid motion. His angel certainly did enjoy his little delights. Having this little window further into Aziraphale’s life opened something up in Crowley which he felt move through him with a prickle of his scales. A kind of deep happiness painted in sadness, a feeling of need that reached out but failed to grasp with its tendrils. A yearning he could not pull back inside of himself and hide away. 

Looking back up at his angel’s face, he was met with a gentle smile and felt the little crack inside of him push forward further. Despite everything he feared, he knew he would never be able to give up what he had found here. He would never be free of this encompassing feeling. 

He did not want to be free of it. 

Aziraphale’s hands reached out for him and he slid into them without thought, feeling the smooth warm palms pull him closer until he was draped across his angel’s stomach and hip, one arm cradling him close to his chest and soothing him as if he were something precious to be be shielded. Crowley laid his head against Aziraphale’s chest and flicked his tongue out with a heaving sigh, his eyes cast up to catch the edge of Aziraphale’s face, the shutter of eyelashes and the wisps of curls. 

“Now, little thing,” came Aziraphale’s voice gently. “Will you tell me what could have happened to make you so sad?” 

Crowley gave a ripple of a shiver, and pressed himself closer into Aziraphale’s warmth. He hid his face away from Aziraphale by moving his head into the crook of his neck, avoiding those intelligent blue eyes. 

“You won’t tell me, little thing?” came a coaxing voice, and a finger stroked along his nose and onto the ridge between his eyes, tracing down his neck slowly. It tickled, and Crowley gave another ripple. He felt, rather than heard, Aziraphale sigh. 

“Things can be so complicated, can’t they?” he heard the angel say softly. “Some things are hard to put into words, I can understand that,” 

Crowley fought down what felt like a stone trapped in the length of his neck. 

“Try not to overthink it, my lovely little thing, if that helps,” 

Aziraphale’s voice was so gentle with him, Crowley could feel the careful choice of his words rumbling out of his chest, through his skin and into Crowley’s scales. Crowley gave a soft hiss, flicking his tongue out to brush against Aziraphale’s neck. 

He was a creature made almost entirely out of over worked thoughts. 

Aziraphale hummed a little as Crowley’s tongue flicked again, tickling his skin. His lips came down to press softly against Crowley’s back. 

“If it would help, give your thoughts to me, little thing. Let me carry them for you, just for a while,” 

That gentle finger was back, resting on the crown of his head before slowly running down along his neck and spine. 

“First, let me take away the sadness,” 

Aziraphale’s voice was so soft. His words were only for Crowley. His finger traced down carefully, following the coils of Crowley’s body until it reached the tip of his tail. 

“There we go, all that sadness just flowing away, let me take that for you,” came that comforting voice. “Now, let’s make a start on that large knot of messy thoughts, let’s wriggle out all those little anxious threads, one by one,” 

Aziraphale’s finger returned to his head, and gave a little caress along his snout before trailing down his body again, his voice coaxing at the imaginary threads he was pulling away. His finger made the journey from Crowley’s head to his tail several more times.

“There we are, look at all these little worries, maybe so little on their own, but when they get all knotted together, that must be so difficult for such a little thing to have to carry around,” 

With every gentle glide of Aziraphale’s fingers, Crowley felt himself relax a little further into Aziraphale’s embrace, his body going slack under the attentive touches. 

“Now let’s take away the stress. There might be a lot there, but let me take some of it for you. We can put it down here with the sadness and the anxieties, and maybe leave some of them there when we’re finished,” 

Aziraphale’s finger made its journey again, taking its time to trace the markings on Crowley’s inky body as it went. 

Once Aziraphale was satisfied all of the stress had been plucked away, next came the worries, and then the concerns, and lastly - with a gentle kiss to his forehead - his fears. One by one Aziraphale traced away everything that had been vibrating through Crowley for the past day. 

Crowley found himself drifting into an odd state, feeling the tension drain away from his body with every movement of Aziraphale’s hand. He let himself ease into it, believing it as if the little Keeper were really extracting all of his worries from him and pushing them out of their warm little bubble. 

Opening his eyes Crowley found himself focusing on the windowsill just beyond Aziraphale’s white hair, the light making the angel glow even brighter than he had in Dorothy’s garden. A warm white light. Starlight. He had thought it was daylight, but it was something much more precious. Looking beyond the glass, Crowley could glimpse a silver haze of stars grouped together. It looked like their little attic space overlooked an area of the Heavens still being worked on, someone had left their stars tossed to one side, wanting to be hung up. As he stared at the stars, a small patter on the glass drew his attention. 

Aziraphale heard it too, moving his head around to look over his shoulder and brush Crowley’s head with the underside of his chin. 

“Oh, isn’t that lovely,” came the gentle voice. “I’ve read about it, but how lovely to hear it with my own ears,” 

Crowley lifted his head dozily, bringing himself even closer to Aziraphale somehow. He felt Aziraphale’s lips move against his scales as his eyes tracked the trails that now traced their way down on the other side of the glass. 

“Nothing quite like being curled up, all safe and warm, while it’s raining outside. All the books say it’s a wonderful thing, to stay inside with a book and listen,” 

Aziraphale was correct, Crowley had never experienced anything quite like this quiet space with the angel. This gentle intimacy. 

“I think, maybe in the spirit of the weather, we could borrow from that idea, couldn’t we?” 

A gentle hand guided Crowley back into Aziraphale’s embrace, curling him into him again as the angel got a little more comfortable into the cushions. Meeting the angel’s smile, Crowley felt that last little remaining space of worry fill only with his Keeper’s warmth. 

“What would you say to curling up with a good book, my dear little thing? I could read you some of my favourite books?” 

Crowley blinked slowly, a small incline of his head. Of course, anything. 

“I have a few here,” smiled the angel, a slight tinge coming to his cheeks. “Sometimes, before I met you, I would come here and read them, just because… well, it’s silly maybe,” he started to chide himself, but Crowley nudged forward, flicking his tongue onto Aziraphale’s nose. 

Aziraphale smiled, a smile which reached the crinkles around his eyes.

“Sometimes a little comfort can go a long way, can’t it, my little thing? Simple pleasures,” 

Crowley inclined his head again. 

“The humans write all sorts of splendid things, you know. Their capacity for creativity is extraordinary. It seems to me though, that some of their most wonderful creative efforts are just for their children,” 

Aziraphale had arranged them both in such a way that when he moved his hands to reach for a hidden stash of books, Crowley was still laid perfectly arranged across his chest and stomach, the end of his tail looped over the angel’s hip and the tip tucked away somewhere underneath the angels knee. Aziraphale fished a few books out, small little things with bright covers. They were quite different to some of the heavy leather bound tomes Aziraphale spent part of his day organising, and different from their adventures among the horticulture and baking sections. 

“Here, let’s start with this one, it’s simply marvellous,” said Aziraphale, showing Crowley the front of the book, which appeared to show a small girl similar to Dorothy sitting next to a large orange striped animal which Crowley recognised as a tiger. 

“‘ _ The Tiger Who Came to Tea’ _ ,” Aziraphale read, a fond smile on his face. “This one is charming,”

Watching Aziraphale read was always a pleasant experience for Crowley, even if that’s all the angel did for hours at a time. The angel had an incredibly expressive face, and his entire being seemed to hang on every word as he read - his eyebrows would furrow and tilt, his eyes full of emotion as they flickered across the page. His mouth would open in small gasps, or sometimes even pout. Even the angel’s shoulders would play a part, tensing up at a crucial moment, or sighing with relief after a pleasing resolution. Watching him was always amusing, but being read to by him was far, far better. 

Aziraphale took his time with the words, his voice gliding through the pages with a steady pace. He obviously knew the words almost off by heart, and Crowley was delighted to find that the angel’s expressive nature was carried through to this live performance, Aziraphale meeting Crowley’s eyes at the end of every sentence. The angel’s passion for the book was so sweet that Crowley sighed, letting his head rest on Aziraphale’s chest and just staring at that lovely face. He might miss the illustrations of the book, but the way Aziraphale told the story gave Crowley such a clear picture that he didn’t need anything else. 

He could also see why this was one of Aziraphale’s favourites - a story about a charming, clever animal inviting themselves over for tea and eating everything in the cupboards, drinking everything in the fridge, and then leaving without having to do any of the actual work. 

“ _ Mummy said ‘I don’t know what to do. I’ve got nothing for daddy’s supper, the tiger has eaten it all! _ ’”

Crowley almost smirked, his tongue flicking playfully at Aziraphale as the angel’s eyes widened and he looked stricken at the concept of no supper. 

The story was a good one, and the one that followed after it was even better - a lovely little book about a man who lived alone and liked to dress up in fancy dress and go on little adventures through a magic door. Again, Crowley wondered if his companion had any self awareness of his favourites. It didn’t seem likely, given the way Aziraphale was excited showing Crowley the illustration of a sulking green dragon explaining his woes to Mr Benn. Whilst the story about kings and knights seemed to be the primary focus of the story, Aziraphale actually seemed much more interested in the street Mr Benn lived on. It had a row of terraced houses with neat front gardens and colourful front doors. Children were playing in the street, and there was a cat minding its business on the fence. 

“Doesn’t that look like a splendid place to live?” asked Aziraphale, showing Crowley the page. “Oh, but look at this wonderful shop! So full of wonderful costumes, so much to spend your time looking for, and the wonderful things you would find hidden away,”

The wistfulness was clear in his voice, as was the glint in the angel’s eye as he soaked up all of the details. Aziraphale seemed to linger on the page, looking at all the little houses with all the people. Crowley watched him for a moment, watching how the angel’s lips parted and formed the ghost of a smile. His eyes suddenly seemed to snap back, and he looked at Crowley with a widening grin. 

“Shall we read another, little thing? I have such a good one to show you next!” 

Crowley inclined his head, flicking his tongue up to brush at Aziraphale’s cheek. 

Aziraphale was careful with the next book, as if it were something beyond precious to him. He showed Aziraphale the cover, a picture of children’s wooden blocks with features of a large mammal abstracted across them and the title of  _ Lion _ . Opening the first page, Aziraphale couldn’t hold back his excitement. 

“It’s about angels, little thing! About all of us up here in Heaven,”

He showed Crowley the pages of angels flying through illustrated clouds to a place that looked a little more outlandish than their own Paradise - it started with a curving slide into a series of bizarre looking buildings. 

“ _ The Animal Factory _ ,” said Aziraphale, pointing to the words and then tracing along the buildings. He paused on two angels playing a game of badminton out on the terrace, before reading the next lines. 

“ _I_ __t_ had three rooms. There was a white fur room for cold days, and a white feather room for hot days. It had a roof made of silver fish scales _ ,” 

_ Sounds impractical. _ Crowley huffed a small hissing laugh. Aziraphale was too busy reading to notice. 

Crowley learned about the hundred and four angels who worked up in the top of the building in a giant room under large glass windows, all of them designing and drawing all of the animals of the world. They had gold tipped paint brushes and colourful boxes of crayons, and would make all sorts of sounds of the animals they were designing. It sounded like quite a noisy affair. 

“ _ When he was quite young, Artist Foreman won a medal for the first animal he made up. It was called Worm,”  _

_ I doubt She’s giving out medals for worms these days…  _ thought Crowley with another smirk. He’d only snuck into the studios where they made all the animals a few times, and never had a chance to stick around that long and get in the way. The studios had far more than a hundred and four angels, and they seemed to be far more equipped at engineering than at design. At least, that’s what it seemed like to Crowley. Apparently all sorts of difficult bits and pieces go inside these animals to make them do all the things they needed to do, and whatever the outside looked like was mostly decided by how it needed to go about it’s business. 

He pulled himself out of his thoughts to find that Aziraphale had moved on without him, the Artist Foreman now fully involved in the process of declaring his new animal name and painting it in enormous letters across his page. He hasn’t left much space for his animal, and apparently was struggling to remember how to actually design an animal. 

_ Typical.  _

Turning the next page, Aziraphale paused reading the prose to excitedly point out the admittedly beautiful animal illustrations and show them to Crowley. 

“Look at this alligator, isn’t that green colour so lovely? Oh, and the zebra has such wonderful stripes - and look at its little tongue!”

Once inspired, the Artist Foreman returned to his page under the large window and drew a small, fat, very brightly coloured little creature with feathers and a fluked tail and odd little legs. It even made a small sound, a ‘peep peep’ noise. It was rather charming, or at least Crowley thought it was charming. Aziraphale seemed to agree, but the Artist Foreman wasn’t satisfied. He spent the next few pages asking other angels for a single word to describe what was wrong with his Lion design. Apparently it was too small, and also far too colourful. Soon after the fish scales and the feathers were corrected as well, with an embarrassed angel smudging them together to form a shaggy brown mane crowning the head and a flame tipped tail. A few more corrections followed this, with more angels consulted, and very soon Lion started to look much closer to the lion painted on their murals downstairs in the Hall. After a haircut, it began to look actually quite regal, and Crowley found himself fighting back a small surge of pride at the fictional Artist Foreman’s creation as he showed it to the Chief Designer. 

“‘ _ Lion is a nice name,” said the Chief Designer. “Let us look at Lion. Lion is handsome. Lion is well drawn. I wouldn’t be surprised if Lion were welcomed there as The King of Beasts. What sort of noise does Lion make? _ ” read Aziraphale, dropping his voice to make a booming, important voice of the Chief Designer. The Keeper had puffed up his chest to embody the Chief Designer, even dropping his chin to create folds in his neck and widened his eyes dramatically, making Crowley hiss in amusement again. 

“ _ ‘Lion goes ‘peep peep!’,’ said the Artist Foreman. “I mean, no! You are right. Lion roars like thunder!” _ ”

Reading as the Artist Foreman, Aziraphale squinted his eyes and made his voice go high and wobbly to make the ‘ _ peep peep _ ’ noise, before switching into a voice that made it obvious that the Artist Foreman was trying to imitate the Chief Designer’s booming voice for ‘ _ thunder! _ ’. Aziraphale was a surprisingly good actor, Crowley mused, watching his angel pantomime with unfiltered affection. 

Aziraphale read the last page with an unhurried enjoyment, once again hamming up his roaring as the Artist Foreman celebrated his creation. Turning to the last page, Aziraphale’s eyes grew wretched and he pouted terribly. 

“Oh, but this is such a shame, I don’t know how, but this copy of this book has this awful blue crayon all over the best page - look at this poor, wonderful Lion!” he said, sounding genuinely affected by this mistreatment of his precious book. Crowley looked, and found himself sighing too. The final colour illustration of the book was meant to be a Lion in all of its glory, but a rough hand had awkwardly scribbled the face and paws blue. The rest of the book had been untouched, albeit a little worn around the edges. Crowley looked back at his angel, who was tracing the lion’s mane with his gentle blue eyes. 

Aziraphale sighed, running a finger over the blue before shutting the book. 

“I suppose I could miracle it away, but I would always know it was there… underneath,” 

Crowley watched him put the book down with the others, before turning his attention back to Crowley. 

“Anyway, little thing. How did you enjoy that?” 

Crowley wriggled, moving further up the angel’s body to coil around his neck and across his shoulders. Aziraphale made a pleased noise and stroked Crowley’s scales absentmindedly as he looked out the window at the rain. 

“What a wonderful day to be here, like this,” he sighed. “I could ask for nothing more than what I have here with you, my dear little thing,” 

Silently, Crowley agreed, brushing his face alongside Aziraphale’s cheekbone to join him looking out at the soft patter of raindrops. His eyes were following his angels, but his tail had slipped out of Aziraphale’s hold, down onto the mat and across the small pile of well loved children’s books. He took his time to focus, letting a trickle of intent run down his spine and into the book laying on top. Within its pages, he felt the blue wax of the crayon fade away into nothing. Once done, he settled his head down against Aziraphale’s neck.

A finger came up to stroke under his jaw. 

“No more sadness, little thing,” promised Aziraphale, turning his head to press his lips to the top of Crowley’s head in a soft kiss. “If you and I are together, we’ll only make happy memories,” 

It was a promise Crowley had no trouble in believing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Books: 
> 
> _The Tiger Who Came To Tea_ \- by Judith Kerr [1968]
> 
> _Mr Benn - Red Knight_ \- David McKee [1967]
> 
> _Lion_ \- William Pene Dubois, 1963. A favourite of my families handed down a few generations.


	13. The Christmas Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley goads Aziraphale to join him for a wonderful wintertime walk.

When Crowley made his way up the stairs into the Heavens, he made sure to keep his head down and avoid any eye contact. He didn’t want to see Sariel again, at least so soon after his scolding. He tried with every step upwards to remind himself of the safe space in the attic with Aziraphale, and of leaving all of the worrying thoughts the Keeper had wriggled out of him there on the floor. He tried not to let the feelings rise up in him again, but instead focussed on every step in turn, following the Starmaker in front of him. 

Arriving at his work station, he lifted his eyes and made a face - apparently all that distress yesterday had left his little patch of sky suffering from an intense lack of editing. He had created something bulbous out of colour and cosmic dust, three pillars rising up like a hand reaching out for starlight. It was definitely a little more ostentatious than his usual work. 

He stood and stared at it for a moment, his brow furrowed. 

“Interesting,” came a voice behind his left shoulder. “Very… interesting,” 

He turned a little, catching sight of an angel who he didn’t recognise. He flicked his gaze over the familiar blue robes, noting that she was just a Starmaker like himself, and not a superior like Sariel. He turned back to look at his handiwork without saying anything. The angel behind him came closer. 

“It’s very spirited,” the angel said again, her voice giving the impression that she was giving encouraging feedback. Crowley snorted a little in amusement.

“I suppose,” he said, although mostly to himself. 

“A fan of colour, I take it?” 

Crowley shrugged, and looked over his shoulder at the angel again. She was looking at his work with an inscrutable expression on her face. Her arms were crossed with one hand up under her chin like she was studying it. 

“Not particularly, but when the occasion suits,” he said shortly, aiming for casual but it came out clipped. She nodded a little, her lips pursed. 

“It’s definitely a departure from your usual canon,” she agreed, moving closer until she was standing next to him. “Unexpected,” 

Crowley hummed through his nose, not particularly invested in continuing the conversation. He glanced around behind them and saw the majority of their shift was already starting work, but a few were still paused to chat with others. 

“I suppose Sariel encouraged you, did he?” came the voice from his left again. Crowley didn’t move his gaze from the riot of colour, but he felt something tighten across his stomach. “He’s got a very specific understanding of our work, after all,” 

Crowley hummed again, once again aiming for non-commital and landing somewhere near congested. He felt her eyes on him for the first time since she came to speak, and he kept looking forward, his eyes fixed. 

“He has a very particular point of view, don’t you think?” 

Crowley should answer. He could feel her eyes studying him just as closely as she had studied the nebula, and was suddenly aware of his fists being clenched. He had to say something. The mechanics of this suddenly felt very challenging. 

“Quite,” he said, his voice coming out in a disused rasp. He swallowed, suddenly aware how unusual his own voice sounded to him. He glanced towards her and she was smiling at him, but still with that inscrutable expression. She extended a hand. 

“ Raum ,” 

Crowley took it, her hand was cold. 

“Crowley,” he told her. 

“Oh, I know,” she said, and smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes, but she squeezed his hand in hers before she released it. “It was nice to meet you, Crowley,” she said. His brow furrowed a little, he wasn’t sure but it sounded like she had said his name wrong. 

“Likewise,” he said, inclining his head just. 

“Good luck with all your colours, Crowley,” she said, still smiling as she moved away from him. He watched her for a moment, and as he turned back to his work station he realised that once again his fists were clenched. With a deep exhale and a conscious release of the muscles in his form, he picked up with brushes and began to work. 

He rushed into the library when it came time to find Aziraphale. The details of his day without the Keeper slipped from relevance as he hurried to slip into his preferable form and coil himself into the books to wait for his angel. Revisiting his little nest of love notes behind the heavy books by the entrance of the library, he had forgotten the sheer amount of notes he had secreted away from his companion. The latest one was the least creased from his movements, and he retraced the words as he waited. 

_ ‘There was snow in his hair and on his eyelashes and I remembered that I love him. It felt like something breaking with a little pain and spilling warm.’  _ \- T.H. 

“Little thing?” 

As always, the sound of Aziraphale’s voice from outside of his nest - a little hushed with secrecy and charged with excitement, sent a small wave of pleasure through Crowley. He moved out from the shadows, straight into Aziraphale’s waiting hands. 

“My little thing,” breathed the Keeper with relief. “Hello,” 

Crowley bumped his nose against Aziraphale’s cheekbone in greeting, winding his way through his steady hands in an action that was both restless and completely at ease. The Keeper smiled at him. 

“I am glad to see you feeling more yourself, my little thing. Our time together yesterday was so wonderful,” 

Crowley agreed, doing his best to convey his agreement through a series of wriggling belly rolls. Aziraphale’s hands followed him, curving over his coils and tickling his scales softly. 

“I’m sorry to say that I must do some work today, my duties have been neglected,” Aziraphale told him regretfully. “But if you are happy to accompany me, we can still spend the day together,” 

_ Anything, _ thought Crowley, as long as they were together. Aziraphale smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as his hands scooped Crowley up, guiding him up his arms and around his neck. 

“I knew you wouldn’t mind, such an obliging little thing,” Aziraphale said softly, tucking Crowley’s tail into the neckline of his robes with deft fingers. 

Watching Aziraphale work was always an enjoyable affair for Crowley, even if the part he found enjoyable was the fact he could watch his angel completely without censure. Unfortunately, from his current position looped around the angel, he was in the perfect place to enjoy the warmth of his skin and the scent of his hair, but not in the ideal place to watch Aziraphale’s eyebrows furrow, or his lips mouth along with the titles of his beloved books. He tried, but a jostling of a shoulder or a quick turn of the head made it difficult. He amused himself instead by watching Aziraphale’s hands at work. 

The Keeper’s hands were nothing short of magnificent. His skin was a soft warm tone, but Crowley knew if they were to lay their hands next to each other, that Crowleys would always be the paler one, a tinge of starlight under his flesh. Aziraphale’s skin was made out of fresh thick cream, giving an impression of luxurious softness and richness. The hairs that netted across his forearms were the same colour as his hair. As Aziraphale reached for a book, his robe pulled down across his forearm and Crowley watched as the muscles in his arm contracted under the skin, and noted the deepening colour of his skin there, bronze tones sculpted across the top of the cream. 

Tracing his eyes down the inside of Aziraphale’s wrist to his hands, Crowley admired the Keeper’s thick hands. Again, if they found themselves side by side as human forms, if Aziraphale were to reach for Crowley’s hand and hold it within his own, the differences would be remarkable. Aziraphale’s hands were broader, his fingers moving with a kind of intentional presence which suggested the angelic strength held within Aziraphale’s form. Crowley’s own hands were slim and a little delicate, with long fingers that flickered like a candle flame in the corner of his eye. To watch them be held still in Aziraphale’s steady grip would be thrilling in a way that Crowley couldn’t find the words to describe. 

He was still pondering the exact manner in which Aziraphale’s hands would reach for Crowley, how his fingers would weave effortlessly between his own and how they would grip as Aziraphale drew to a stillness. It took Crowley a moment to pull himself from his daydream of a thumb tracing across the interior creases of his palm to realise that the steady pratter of Aziraphale’s ministrations to the books had ceased. 

“Ah,” said Aziraphale shortly, his hands still holding the large leatherbound book close to him. His attention wasn’t on the book, he was looking up and along the bookshelves. There was an archway formed into the shelves, with a wide door frame and then a large arched door made from wood and painted a glorious red colour. It was bolted with large curved plates of metal from the hinges and large rounded nails. 

Judging from Aziraphale’s pause, Crowley guessed that this door’s presence was a surprise. The library had a habit of doing that. 

“That’s certainly interesting,” said Aziraphale quietly. He shifted his hands on the book of psalms in his hands and cleared his throat. “An interesting door that will remain shut,” 

Crowley glanced up at his angel, with the same level of surprise. He had already raced ahead in his mind, wondering what delights the library had in store for them both - only to be brought back. Aziraphale’s eyes flickered towards Crowley with a little guilty look before refocusing on the book in front of him. 

“Like I said, a lot of work to do,” he told Crowley primly. “The books need…all sorts of attention…” he trailed off, opening the psalms and staring blankly at the page. Crowley moved a little to watch his face closely. The angel stared ahead resolutely, ignoring Crowley’s eyes. 

“So much to do, can’t go… wandering off wherever… willy nilly and all that,” 

Crowley flicked his tongue to hide a smirk. He wriggled down Aziraphale’s arm, plonking himself down onto the floor. He ignored the noise of indignation from his angel and made his way over to the door. 

“Now, whatever you do, little thing,  _ do not  _ open that door,” came Aziraphale’s warning. Crowley looked back at the Keeper, who was still holding his book but had one finger pointed at him sternly. There was an undeniable twinkle in his eye though, as he fought very hard not to smile. “Do not open it, and definitely, absolutely, do not go in there. Because if you do… well, I’ll have to come and fetch you, wouldn’t I?” 

Crowley gave a snake’s interpretation of a chuckle, flicking his tongue towards the angel before turning back to the door. 

“I mean it, little thing, do not-”

Crowley, through a feat of great muscular coordination and a minor miraculous coincidence, flicked his nose up and through the heavy circular latch of the wooden door, threading himself partially through and twisting in such a way that gave a loud clack of metal as the latch shifted and the door swung open, just a little bit. It was enough for Crowley to return to the floor, looking back to see his angel staring at him with wide eyes and a scandalised expression. He peered through the door and suddenly shivered as a breath of cold air slipped through, bringing with it a few flecks of white. 

“Now you’re just being naughty” came Aziraphale’s voice, with a warning tone that had the complete opposite effect than he may have intended - suddenly Crowley had every intention of being as  _ naughty _ as possible. “I simply couldn’t  _ not  _ come fetch you, if you continue to be so  _ fiendish _ -”

Oh, yes, even better -  _ fiendish _ ! With a resolute wriggle, Crowley nosed his way into the opening and slipped through. It was dark, the door leading into a small wooden space that seemed full of things bustled and tucked away. Oh, please don’t let this lovely door turn out to be a holy broom cupboard. 

He would never live it down. 

He pushed a little further in, giving another shiver as he registered how cold the surface beneath his belly was. His snout brushed against something soft and yielding, something tickling against his scales. 

“Now that’s enough, little thing, please-” 

Aziraphale had lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, having now been lured against his fervent wishes to the crack in the door. Crowley plunged deeper into the holy broom cupboard, pushing through soft furry coverings. The floor beneath him no longer felt like smooth wooden boards, but shifted under his body. It was also almost unbearably cold. He could still hear Aziraphale pantomiming somewhere behind him, along with the telltale creak of hinges. 

“Unbelievable, when I have so much work I would rather be doing,” came Aziraphale’s voice, but whilst the words were designed to be indignant, they came out the complete opposite - Aziraphale gave into Crowley’s deviation with so little resistance that Crowley didn’t see why his little Keeper bothered with the pretence. 

He pushed deeper and the soft hanging garments around them parted to bring him out of the cupboard - wait, no, wardrobe - and into a wide open space. Not a room, but something better. 

“Little thing, where are -  _ oh! _ ” 

A crunch of a footfall just behind Crowley told him that his angel had pushed through the wardrobe and was now standing behind him, his bare feet slipping into a thick pile of cold white… something. 

“Oh my!” 

Surprise turned into wonder immediately, as Aziraphale and Crowley looked around them. They were standing on a sloping bank of a forest, having just emerged from a rack of heavy fur coats. The trees were scattered ahead of them, the dark colour of evergreens bursting through a thick covering of the same white stuff that they were currently standing in. Looking down, Crowley watched how his tail created an impression in it a lot lighter than Aziraphale’s feet as he coiled around himself to conserve his warmth, but the stuff wasn’t like anything he had ever seen - or felt - before. 

“Oh, my little thing, it’s snow! I’ve read about this,” Aziraphale said, the grin evident in his voice as he bent down to scoop some up with his hands. He crumpled it in his fingers, watching as it sprinkled down towards the ground. “I knew it would be cold but my goodness! And so beautiful, don’t you think, little thing?” 

Crowley had twisted himself into a coil close to Aziraphale’s feet, but he found it was hard to care about the beauty when the cold was starting to bite into his form with an unrelenting persistence. Aziraphale’s hands moved to scoop again, but this time his hands closed around Crowley and he lifted him up and out of the snow. 

“Here, little thing, stay close, stay warm,” 

Within seconds, Crowley was wrapped around his angel’s neck and shoulders, with nearly his whole body looped under the angel’s robes and resting against his skin. His tail looped across Aziraphale’s upper back and the numb tip of his tail came to rest tucked into the warmest space he could find - Aziraphale’s armpit. The angel wriggled a little, holding back a giggle as he squirmed. 

“No tickling, you little fiend,” came the instruction, followed by sympathy, “You poor thing, it is frightfully cold isn’t it?” 

Aziraphale looked at their surroundings again, his eye catching the way the light glinted off the peaceful, undisturbed snow on the trees. 

“I suppose we should go back…” 

It was an unconvincing attempt. 

As Aziraphale turned back towards the coats and the door hidden behind them, a glimmer of light caught Crowley’s eye - too small to be the moon and too golden to be a reflection. He twisted over Aziraphale’s shoulder and sought it out, unconsciously twitching the tip of his tail in curiosity and drawing a small yelp from the Keeper. 

“Oh, don’t! You little - oh, what can you see?” 

As Aziraphale moved again, Crowley saw the light again, flickering through a small space between trees. He stretched his neck a little, twisting to angle it properly. There was something just past the trees in front of them. He looked back at the angel who had two competing expressions on his face. Aziraphale glanced back at the coats and the door back into the library, but then back towards the trees, and then finally let his eyes meet Crowleys. He didn’t say anything at first, his eyebrows furrowing and crumpling as the internal conflict went back and forth. His hands dithered, one hand flicking the palm open in query, the other wringing in a loose fist. Even his feet seemed to have opposing ideas, given the way the angel was pacing on the spot - although that may have been due to a different factor. 

“Oh, blast, I can’t think like this,” grumbled the angel, looking down at his toes which were now even paler than his hair. He turned back to the coats and thrust his hands into the densely packed wardrobe. He found what he was looking for quickly, and with a quick tug pulled free a pair of skin boots with a thick wide sole of rubber. The insides were lined with thick fur and laced up with a cord, and Aziraphale didn’t even spare the time to comment on the cleverness of the design before he stuck his feet inside and pulled the boots up his legs to just under his knees, knotting them with cold fingers. 

“She really does have  _ quite _ the imagination,” muttered the angel quietly, “Making something so beautiful so unpleasant to be around,” 

Crowley had never heard the angel sound annoyed, and it was rather pleasing. Like watching a small fluffy animal have a tantrum. 

Aziraphale didn’t stop at the boots. He grabbed the longest coat he could see, a heavy one with dense white fur speckled with grey and black. Bustling into it, he buttoned it snugly around his middle and fluffed the collar up, his hands reaching in to make sure Crowley was comfortably situated within the fur. Lastly he pulled a pair of large fur lined mittens out and stuck his hands into them. 

“Ah, there we are. Now I can think clearly,” he sighed, one hand coming up to check that Crowley was still nestled in close under his chin, which he most assuredly was. The coat draped heavily across Aziraphale’s shoulders and Crowley found himself squeezed so close to the angel’s skin that he couldn’t tell where he ended and his Keeper began. He was so thankful that Aziraphale had tucked him under his robes. Feeling the warmth of his angel’s skin through his scales and the tickle of his body hair was a pleasure Crowley never wanted to be without. 

Aziraphale was looking back the way Crowley had, moving his head to try and see the light through the branches. 

“I suppose we should check what that is…” he said, “In case it’s something important,” 

Crowley smirked to himself. 

“After all, you must be dreadfully curious, and if I didn’t help you find out what it was, you would most likely just come back here alone, and we couldn’t have you alone in the cold, could we?”

It was the flimsiest excuse Crowley could have imagined, like a soft sheet of tissue fluttering in the breeze of good sense, and Crowley mentally applauded his angel for the mastery of mental gymnastics he must have gone through. Aziraphale nodded to himself, as if agreeing with himself. 

“Right, well, nothing else to be done, then,” sighed the angel dramatically, as he took a resolute step away from the wardrobe and crunched into the untouched snow bank in front of them. As he made his way towards the light, his head bent a little and Crowley felt lips press to the top of his head and a small whisper that gave the whole game away. 

“My devious, naughty, dreadful,  _ wonderful _ little thing,” 

Moving through the trees, Aziraphale and Crowley followed the glimmer of light until finally rounding the side of a particular large pine tree, they saw it in its entirety. The bank they were on gave way to a clearing, and at the centre of it stood a tall lamppost. It was painted such a dark green it was almost black, and the boxed glass at the very top glowed with a gently flickering light. Despite the solitary source, the light seemed to touch everything in the clearing and turn the snow into gentle twinkling gold.

As they looked up at the lamppost, Aziraphale gave a small gasp. 

“Oh, little thing- look!”

He pointed to the side of the lamppost. Within its little halo of light, there were small specks of white which were floating downwards towards them. Crowley followed the movement, and saw that there were more - in fact the whole air seemed to be sprinkled with little specks of snow. 

“This is how it collects like this, little thing,” explained Aizraphale, lifting his mittens to try and collect some of the specks to show Crowley. “When it gets cold enough, sometimes the rain will turn to these - look closely,” 

Crowley moved out of the warm space under Aziraphale’s chin and peered closer, moving his head side to side slightly to focus on the tiny little thing perched on Aziraphale’s glove. 

“They’re called snowflakes, they have the most beautiful, clever designs - no two snowflakes are identical!” whispered Aziraphale, as if not to disturb the delicate little creation. Crowley could make out the little prongs of ice, the way the pattern branched out into a perfectly symmetrical pattern. He flicked his tongue towards it, wondering if She had imbued a scent to this tiny artwork, but he misjudged the distance and his tongue dashed up the small flake in an instant. He started a little, moving his head back to try and see where he had knocked it but then he heard Aziraphale’s chuckle, and felt the puff of warm air against his scales. 

“Ah, I’ve read about that - catching snowflakes on one’s tongue always sounded like a wonderful thing to experience,” 

Crowley looked at his angel, finding him with his head tipped back and his mouth open. He laughed, sticking his tongue out and trying to capture more of the soft flakes in his mouth. He was smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkled as he laughed, trying to catch the snowflakes which brushed over his cheeks and settled in his eyelashes. In the light, his hair looked like soft whips of butter, and the snowflakes in his hair sparkled. 

He was so utterly beautiful. 

“Oh, little thing, isn’t this splendid?” sighed the angel, still looking up at the falling snow. A hand, free of its glove, came up to brush against Crowley’s neck. It was so quiet. The snow made no noise as it came to rest, but the dance of flakes needed nothing to guide it. Except… there was more than silence. Crowley tilted his head, but it was only faint - a flow of notes snatched on the breeze. He twisted over Aziraphale’s collar, trying to pinpoint the source of it. It was unmistakable - a low sound of music filtering through the trees just beyond the lamppost. He nudged Aziraphale’s ear, drawing the angel’s attention away from the swirl of snowflakes. 

“What is it, little thing?”

The angel’s voice was hushed with excitement, all his previous bluster about work and responsibilities completely forgotten. 

“Do you see something?”

Aziraphale followed the line of Crowley’s gaze and moved towards the edge of the clearing. As they approached the line of trees, the sound became a little clearer. Aziraphale made a soft noise as he caught it as well, and together they left the lamppost behind and pushed deeper into the woods. The swell of music beckoned them onwards, Aziraphale winding them between pine trees and following Crowley’s direction as he pointed his nose this way and that, guiding them closer to the source. 

“Oh, can you hear them singing? How lovely,” 

The music was now joined by overlapping harmonising voices. They were still quiet, just out of reach. Something caught Crowley’s eye as Aziraphale navigated them around a low holly bush, another flicker of light. He wriggled in excitement, the coloured light lighting up the snow in a cascade of scarlet, amber and blue. The trees gave way to another clearing, this one much longer. Lining the sides, large terracotta red stone pillars rose above the trees and held aloft a series of crisscrossing arches that instead of holding a ceiling of painted stars, gave way to a stunning sky of rich blue filled with hundreds of stars. The forest intertwined itself with the pillars of this church, the snow moving unrestricted through the stonework and alighting on the trees that crowded at the edges of the clearing. 

The music seemed to have no true source, the rise and fall of the organ existing within the church like the scent of incense, the voices of the choir weaving among the trees - and oh, the trees!

“Oh, my little thing, look!” 

Along the two sides of the church, within the pillars, stood a series of tall and proud pine trees. These ones were different to the snow laden others outside of the church, they were placed with purpose and each one laced with colourful lights which glowed in bright exuberance. Crowley had worked with colour for as long as he could remember, he thought he had seen every variation of the rainbow She had created, but these lights were so vibrant, each with a little pinprick of light at the very centre. Pink and emerald green, sunshine yellow and bright red. A flurry of colour only made more enchanting by the soft covering of snow on each tree. 

Aziraphale walked towards them gently, holding his breath as if not to disturb the scene. The music seemed to beckon them in, inviting them into this special place. 

“Beautiful,” breathed Aziraphale. 

He moved to the first tree to their left, looking closer at the lights. Crowley stretched out of his warm wrapping to peer at the branches, for all seemed to be decorated with small objects. 

The first hosted a collection of awkwardly made clay flowers, some so heavy that they bent the branch they were hung on. All of them were painted in bright gaudy colours, with large golden sequins glued inexpertly to the centre. There was a little plaque on the floor in front of the tree, partially covered in snow which Aziraphale stooped to brush away. 

“ _ ‘Flowers of Eden, by the children of the Sunday school’ _ , how dear,” read Aziraphale, reaching out to twist one so its unpainted clay back wasn’t visible. 

Moving onto the next one, they were in more familiar territory. The tree was decorated with gingerbread men and candy canes, something Aziraphale had explained to him while they had perused a few confectionery books. There were also beautifully decorated sugar cookies, with delicate lines and patterns in icing creating snowflakes, stars, hearts and…

“Are those carrots?” Aziraphale asked, his brow furrowing a little. He reached out for one to confirm it, twisting it between his fingers. “A sugar cookie carrot. Of course,” he said, flicking his eyebrows in bafflement He lifted it off the branch and brought it closer for Crowley to see. It was a rather stubby carrot in a very cheerful orange, with little divots of chocolate sprinkles to give the illusion of dirt in its not unattractive wrinkles. 

Crowley flicked his tongue towards it, before looking back towards his angel with a snake’s interpretation of a shrug. Aziraphale, brow still furrowed in concern, returned the shrug and moved away from the confectionary tree, absentmindedly bringing the carrot up to his mouth to nibble on. 

They moved on, and the next tree made Aziraphale a lot happier - it was full of tiny angels all made from tiny sheets of golden metal which had been hand carved and engraved with tiny details. Each angel was different, some with different instruments, some with gifts in their hands, others with scrolls or candles. Aziraphale of course was most pleased with a small golden angel holding three scrolls in his hands, one of them looping down with tiny words engraved onto it, proclaiming that  _ He Has Risen _ . 

_ Spoilers…  _ thought Crowley to himself, as Aziraphale cooed over the tiny angel with its long curling hair and adoring expression. Aziraphale thought he looked devoted, Crowley thought he looked a bit simpering. 

They crossed over the middle of the church to the other side of trees, and Crowley nudged Aziraphale towards one he thought looked rather interesting. The tree held an entire series of hand embroidered animals, each one shaped with sequins, gold wire and beading. Aziraphale was delighted, and spent some minutes looking for and identifying each animal hidden among the branches - some of which included a rather handsome lobster, a slightly lopsided alpaca with a colourful tasselled pack, and a whole group of little cats with a variety of markings and colours. 

“Did you know a group of cats together is known as a clowder?” Aziraphale told him as he traced a finger across the teeny tiny silver bell attached a pink collar of a black cat. “Remind me I must show you this delightful book that lists all of the names of groups of animals who live together, it really is wonderful,” he told Crowley absentmindedly as he moved from decoration to decoration. He seemed to be checking them, reaching out to touch and inspect each one, before looking on for the next. A small frown had evolved on his face. Finally he huffed a little and gave up his search. 

“There’s no snake,” he said simply, frowning at the tree and then looking down towards Crowley, who was currently looped lazily across his shoulder. 

“Outrageous,” Aziraphale stated, as they moved onto the last one. 

Aziraphale’s hand reached out and gently cupped his hand around one spherical decoration, its surface painted with stars. Looking to the next, Crowley could see that all of the decorations were varying sizes of royal blue baubles, each one painted with a collection of golden stars connected with a golden line. 

“Oh, I see!” said Aziraphale, drawing back to take in the entire tree. “This one is decorated with all of the star formations, the ones that the humans gave names to. Or,  _ will _ give names to,”

Crowley looked again, and yes, he could see it now - these were the same stars he knew, that he had hung himself, but now given a new understanding by an artist from Earth. Each of his and his fellow Starmaker’s labours witnessed and recorded by their audience, with new names and new formations to add to their stories. 

“See, here, little one - here is the one they called ‘Orion’, and his belt,” pointed Aziraphale, brushing away a little clump of snow from the top of the decoration. “And there, this is the scorpion who chases him across the sky, how clever,” 

Crowley pushed out further from Aziraphale’s sleeve, wanting to see more of them, wanting maybe to find one of his formations painted onto a bauble. He wound himself down his angel’s arm, ignoring the shiver of cold air across his body as he searched. Aziraphale moved without seemingly knowing he was doing so, aiding Crowley’s search until he spotted one he knew to be his - a small collection of stars in a diagonal formation and tilted towards their companion collection on a bauble nestled close by on a neighbouring branch. 

Aziraphale smiled wide, following Crowley’s eyes to the two constellations. 

“Aren’t they lovely? The lovers Cassopeia and her husband Cepheus,” 

Crowley turned his head back to look at his angel, hoping that he would tell him the story, and of course he was not disappointed. 

“Cassopeia was a queen of extraordinary beauty, but also quite the ego, for she knew she was so beautiful as to rival the gods, and for her pride she was flung to hang in the sky. Her husband, for he loved her so, and could not be without her even with her pride and vanity, he was hung to be beside her for all of eternity,”

Crowley looked back at his stars and gave another small shiver, not from the cold but from the words, hearing his work translated into eternity. Aziraphale’s hand reached for him again, and he let himself be guided back into the warm collar, the angel tucking his tail in with such care. 

“Such wonders, the stars,” sighed Aziraphale wistfully, pressing another kiss to the top of Crowley’s head. “I don’t get much chance to see them from the Library, but... “ he sighed deeply, with a gentle sigh of satisfaction. 

Crowley twisted to look up at his angel, who was looking down towards Cassopeia and her lover. His eyes were unfocused but crinkled at the edges, matching the smile that could warm Crowley so much better than any borrowed fur coat could. Aziraphale’s eyes refocused onto Crowley and the smile grew wider, the soft glow of the tree’s lights tinting him in colour. 

“It’s always an honour to see them, even from my attic window,” he told Crowley in a steady voice, smiling as if he was telling Crowley a secret. It may have been a trick of the light, but Crowley could have sworn that his Keeper turned a little pink across the cheeks, his eyes flicking down before flicking back up to Crowley and widening. He made a small noise of happiness, and pointed to the base of the tree, Crowley twisting to follow his gaze. 

“Oh, look, little thing, presents!” 

Underneath the tree there was a collection of boxes, each one wrapped in different coloured paper and tied with ribbons. They varied in size and shape, but each one had clearly been wrapped with great care. On the top of each box and parcel, there was a small tag.

“These are a human tradition, one that they have had in nearly every culture - where one will present the other with a token of value, whether sentimental, or practical, or maybe even ceremonious,” explained Aziraphale, using his best Keeper voice and plucking the words from one of his many books on the subject. He knelt down to get closer to the presents, to show Crowley. 

“Often they would be wrapped like this, to add an element of surprise to it. For some people, giving gifts to their companion is a gesture of love and devotion,” 

Crowley watched Aziraphale trace the large scarlet bow on the one closest to him, the mittens hiding Aziraphale’s clever fingers from illustrating the cleverness of the looped ribbon. Aziraphale straightened again, his hands once again returning to Crowley to make sure he was still tucked into his collar and not slipped out into the cold air. 

“Until I met you, I had never received a present,” he said quietly, hands still cupped around Crowley. He wasn’t looking at him again, but the same tinge of pink had returned to his face along with the small smile that wrinkled his eyes. Crowley stared at his angel, ignoring the slow ripple of emotion that threaded through him. Aziraphale’s hands moved, one peeling the glove away from the other and revealing the golden ring Crowley had plucked from the bookshelves and presented to him. Aziraphale turned his hand to let the gold glint in the soft colourful light of the tree. 

A small part of him felt at a loss, unsure what it was that had stirred up this oddly despairing feeling. He looked at the ring, and then back towards Aziraphale, noting the way his muscles seemed to be shivering a little despite the warmth of the fur collar engulfing him. Aziraphale slid his hand back into the glove and bent his head to press another small, barely felt kiss to the top of Crowley’s head. 

As he turned and began to continue forward in the snow, Crowley stared at his angel, a ray of clarity casting through the swirling confusion. A gift to a companion, a gesture of love and devotion. Had he really been so blatant? How could he, as mute and as disguised as he was, still manage to give away something so unspoken and deeply felt as that? Without even knowing he was doing so? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes and references:
> 
>  _‘There was snow in his hair and on his eyelashes and I remembered that I love him. It felt like something breaking with a little pain and spilling warm.’_ \- Red Dragon, Thomas Harris [1981]
> 
> The lamppost is from The Chronicles of Narnia, by C. S. Lewis.


	14. The Workshop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale take a detour and meet a friendly figure in from the snow.

They had reached the end of the procession of decorated trees, and Aziraphale made the kind of sigh that could only be interpreted one way, the kind one makes before thanking a host and departing. Crowley, in his state of lovesick idiocy, had retreated back into Aziraphale’s robes and wriggled his way across his angel’s skin, only leaving the very tip of his snout visible outside of the heavy coat. Aziraphale, who must have noticed him winding his way across his upper back, had not commented, and was now looping around and past the church pillars. It was with a heavy heart that Crowley realised that their little adventure in the snow must be over, Aziraphale fully sated from the trees and the snowflakes. 

He was falling into a rhythm of listening to Aziraphale’s breaths when he realised that the crunch of his boots in the fresh snow had slowed, and then ceased. 

“Interesting…” came Aziraphale's voice quietly. Crowley pushed out a little further, peeking out of the collar to see. Aziraphale was standing on the path leading back towards the lamppost, and looking upwards towards a snow bank with a small rocky path scattered amongst it. The path was lit up by small floating lights which seemed to beckon at them. 

“Oh, why does everything have to be so interesting?” whined the angel, looking back along the path they had come, and then upwards towards the lights again. Crowley’s entire head had emerged from his hiding spot now, and he twisted to look towards the path eagerly. Aziraphale sighed, a little critically. “It’s like it  _ knows _ ,” 

Crowley pulled back and looked up at his companion, angling his head a little in query. Aziraphale looked at him. 

“Don’t you start now, too. I can’t have you both ganging up on me,”

Aziraphale looked away, then back at the path, and then back at Crowley, who continued to tilt his head in a manner he noticed seemed to get him what he wanted with the poor Keeper. Aziraphale’s eyebrows tilted in defeat and he sighed again, shaking his head a little. 

“Oh, enough! There’s only so much sweetness an angel can take,” he said dramatically, turning towards the path and beginning to crunch his way with each step towards it. The snow bank raised up towards the path, and the snow proved a little deeper than it looked initially. Aziraphale had to lift his coat up to make his way through, and made a high-pitched noise of displeasure as snow tumbled over the top of his boots and down his legs. 

“You’re a terrible influence on me, little thing,” he muttered once they had reached the bottom of what appeared to be rough stone steps under the swells of settled snow. The next few minutes were preoccupied with Aziraphale finding each buried step and checking his footing before committing. It was much steeper than it had looked from down near the church, and Aziraphale was puffing soon enough. The puffing was followed by some muttered cursing, and some creative names for Crowley who filed them away in delight. 

“Oh, you foul Duke of limbs,” grumbled Aziraphale, stooping to check a ledge with his hands before stepping up, Crowley clinging to him and flicking his tongue in delight. “Or I suppose, Duke of coils, you wretched little fopling,” 

Crowley, for all of his flaws, was enjoying himself thoroughly, as Aziraphale’s skin had grown much warmer with the effort it took to climb, and the angel looked dashing with a tinge of pink across his cheeks and neck as it contrasted very well with the scowl painted across his features. Aziraphale charmed and giddy with happiness was a treat, but Aziraphale cross was a pure indulgence. 

Aziraphale paused when they reached the top of the path, and exhaled heavily, raising a glove to push his curls away from his face. He refused to look at Crowley, but instead continued to curse under his breath whilst looking back down at the interrupted snow that showed their journey. 

“This is your doing, my ghastly little scallywag,” he puffed, finally having pulled himself together, his chest still heaving a little with exertion. “Let us hope there is something of great reward at the end of this caper, or else there will be no adventures for a week! Mark my words!”

Crowley wriggled against his angel’s skin, butting his head against Aziraphale’s jaw in a way to coax the angel to smile at him. Of course it would be worth it, had the library ever let them down? And besides, no adventures for a week would be just as a hardship for Aziraphale as it would be for Crowley, for there would be nothing to do except  _ work _ .

Aziraphale did his best to ignore Crowley, and was instead looking for the small glowing lights that had tempted them this way. They had retreated along with them at each step, and were now bobbing just out of reach along the path into the tree line. Aziraphale gave one last large puff and trod on, doing his best to hide a smile as Crowley moved from his jawline to up along the side of his head, forming some sort of scaled eyepatch. 

“Would you settle down, you sorner **,** it’s too cold for you and your nonsense out here,” scolded Aziraphale as they made their way, his hands now coming up to scoop Crowley’s body which had formed a crown on his head. Crowley hissed in delight, letting himself be manhandled back into the warmth of Aziraphale’s collar and his delight was rewarded with a proper smile. 

The path curved and dipped, leading them up into a peak which flowed down into another clearing, the pine trees here growing much taller and unruly than down below. At the peak there was a tall wooden house, with dark windows and shovelled snow heaped either side of the porch to allow the door to swing open. A path led down into the clearing, which housed three wooden cabins, all so laden with snow they almost disappeared into the hill. The small windows were all glowing with light, and there was the scent of freshly sawn wood on the breeze. Aziraphale moved down towards the cabins, following the little lights which continued to twirl and flicker through the air. As they drew closer, they could see the footsteps of dozens of people who had come and gone from the cabins and then back up the path and out, the way they had come. There was nothing to hear now, all of the bustling energy of the place had quietened for the evening. Aziraphale kept moving forward, looking towards the brightest window, and once he reached it, he found he had to go up on his tiptoes to see in. Brushing the gathered snow from the sill away, his breath fogged up the glass and he sighed. 

“Look inside, little thing, maybe you can see better than I,” he said, lifting Crowley up to a clear patch of glass to peer inside. 

They weren’t just cabins, but workshops. Inside Crowley could see large wooden tables, laden with many stations with half finished projects on them, scattered with tools and pots of paint. Just beyond the tables, lining every wall he could see were endless shelves, all little boxes and cupboards and mismatched shelves, which had dozens of items that shone with colour and glinted from the warm light inside, although he could not see clearly what they were. He wriggled a bit, trying to see clearly through the frosted glass, but in his wriggling, he found something better; right there, in between the glass panel and the wooden frame of the cabin - a hole.

Aziraphale only noticed that Crowley was sneaking away from him when half his body had discreetly, and miraculously, slipped through the small hole and into the warm cabin. He felt Aziraphale’s gloves tighten a little on his tail, and heard the Keeper’s wail of protest. 

“Little thing! You can’t-”

But he could, and he was, and soon he had completely wriggled his way in from the cold and was inside on the windowsill. He twisted back to look at his angel through the glass, and could have chuckled at the look of dismay and deep set annoyance on his face, obviously in the middle of saying something put out. He poked his head back out into the cold just in time to hear Aziraphale call him a skelpie-limmer before he decided it was, in fact, far too cold and it would be better to stay indoors. He motioned with his tail towards the cabin door, before turning and sliding off the sill and into the workshop. 

Inside the space seemed a lot larger than he had expected, the snow piled up on the roof and sides hid the true extent of the workshop. There were eight large wooden workstations, with more tables around the outside of the space, and a ladder leading up to a second mezzanine floor which overlooked the space and held even more tables. Each table had tall stools which were abandoned with the projects still on the table in half finished states. Crowley looked at the one closest to him, which appeared to be left to dry overnight. It was a wooden musical theatre, with a small wooden glockenspiel in a tiered wooden casing with a series of small carved wooden soldiers, all painted carefully in red, black and gold. It was the gold that appeared to be drying, and all the little instruments for the playing figures sat to one side of the workstation, waiting to be attached to their players. Crowley moved a little closer, twisting his head to examine the player closer to him when he nudged the handle and it turned, emitting several chimed notes as the players moved up and down, and some moved their arms expectantly. He pulled back with a surprised hiss and jumped again when a grinding noise of wood on wood came from behind him. 

Looking over, he saw Aziraphale pushing his shoulder against the heavy wooden door into the cabin and squeezing through the resulting gap, before turning and pushing heavily against it to seal the cold out. The angel was a little pink in the face, but whether this was from exertion or annoyance at his disappearing companion, Crowley couldn’t be sure. 

“Little thing?” hissed Aziraphale quietly, looking around the room for Crowley but getting distracted by all of the glittering objects that jostled for his attention. “Oh my!” 

Crowley moved away from the musical theatre and slithered down the bench towards his angel, picking his way between wood shavings, paint pots and metal tools left where they were. He found that when he arrived next to Aziraphale that the angel couldn’t tear his eyes away from all of the wonderful objects in the shelves, resulting in Crowley having to extend his own way over to Aziraphale’s arm and up into his collar without aid, an act that both annoyed his need for attention and delighted his want for casual closeness. 

Aziraphale’s hand, now free from its glove, came up to cup his head as he came to a rest across his shoulders. “Oh, little thing, what a cave of wonders!” 

He moved as if in a trance, his eyes wide as he fought to stop and look at every single thing, but not to be distracted by the next wonderful thing. His other hand reached out to trace the toy closest to him, a small articulated wooden crocodile with a bright green face with a string pull clamped between its carved teeth. 

“Oh, how marvellous,” whispered Aziraphale, still walking slowly towards the large wall of shelves. The objects they could see from the window were even more delightful up close - finished toys placed carefully in cubbys and boxes and shelves, tucked away safely. 

“Oh little thing, look at this marvellous dragon - how they’ve painted the scales with little colourful jewels on his belly!” said Aziraphale, reaching out but not quite touching the dragon, which was posed in flight with wires connected to a series of cogs, which would flap his wings once the handle was turned. Next to him was a large wooden nesting doll with a cheerful face of a milkmaid painted on it, her golden ringlets circled with gold paint and a stripy blue dress. Around her sat her animal nesting friends - a splotchy black and white cow, a charming pink pig, a dippy looking sheep, a colourful rooster and a bright yellow duckling. On the shelf directly next to them was a large fluffy toy rabbit with fur that looked so soft and gently curled Crowley wanted to wind himself around it and go to sleep. 

“Such beautiful toys,” sighed Aziraphale, his gaze now caught on a small tin boat with a small space for a candle to make it move and a bright coat of emerald paint. “Such beautiful treasures!”

They continued their way down the shelves for some time, both finding new favourites to show to the other, each one with Aziraphale’s hushed commentary. 

“What a marvellous unicorn, look at that lovely long white mane. Oh, isn’t that clever? A wind up frog! With those wonderful legs I’m sure it can jump very high. Oh, and look at this teddy bear - he’s wearing an anorak! How dear,” 

Having reached the corner of the workshop, Aziraphale gave another satisfied sigh and turned back to the heaped tables of half finished toys. They walked through them silently, Crowley noting boxes and barrels under each table stocked high with supplies - from cogs to rolls of leather tied with string, to drawers overflowing with paint pots and brushes and ribbons. Whilst he looked below, Aziraphale was peering up at the rafters as he walked, where more supplies hung on hooks or ropes, waiting to be called down via a pulley. He could make out dried flowers and wispy grasses, coils of golden twine and cord, bags of stuffing and large skeins of wool twisted together in colourful wreaths. Both of them were so distracted by the sheer quantity of things to take in, they were both caught off guard when a gentle clearing of the throat seized their attention. 

The man whose throat it had been was standing only a few feet away from them, directly in front of Aziraphale who had not noticed as he craned his head back. How they had missed him entering the workshop was a mystery, as this man was much taller than the Keeper and significantly broader. 

“Oh!” gasped Aziraphale, giving a little jump and his hands going directly to Crowley who was now gripping his tail across Aziraphale’s shoulders in surprise. “Oh, I’m so sorry, you startled me!” 

The man’s steady blue eyes travelled from Aziraphale’s face to Crowley peeking out from under his fur collar, and then back to Aziraphale. From within his gigantic white and silver beard there came the movement of a smile. 

“Not at all. What brings you to my workshop so late in the evening?” 

The man moved aside, and Aziraphale could now see the sled he had brought with him, loaded up with wooden logs freshly cut from the forest surrounding them. He dragged it to an empty table and began to bring the logs out one by one to brush away any remaining snow before propping them against the table to dry in the warm workshop. Aziraphale dithered a little before following. 

“My deepest apologies for our intrusion, good sir, it’s just that my companion here…” he trailed off, reaching for words and continuing to dither before settling on an answer both partially truthful and partially a glossing over of the event. “It’s just like my friend here does not do so well in the cold, I thought there might be a fire we could warm ourselves on, but I do apologise greatly to enter without permis-”

“All are welcome to come in,” interrupted the smiling giant as he stacked his logs, looking back to regard Crowley who continued to hide. “My home is always warm and ready for visitors, but not often at such a time of night,”

“Thank you, again, I apologise, I did not realise it had become so late,” said Aziraphale quietly, stooping to pick the last log from the sled and offer it out to their host. It was the largest and most robust trunk of the haul, and Crowley watched as the little angel lifted it without concern for the weight. 

The giant accepted the log, and straightened once his job was complete. He turned back to them and smiled again. 

“If you are cold, please join me by the fire. I would be happy to offer you some cocoa too, there is always some ready for me before I retire,” 

Aziraphale was in the middle of forming another apology wrapped around a statement of departure, but this was overtaken by the sudden desire for whatever this offer of cocoa held. 

“Oh, thank you sir, so kind,” 

The man nodded and led them away from the workshop, to a door tucked away to the side of the shelves, and led them through to a small office. It was a lot warmer in here, and the low fire glowed in the hearth, casting an amber light across them and flickering on the walls which were lined with portraits of grinning children. Some had freckles and curls, others had a tooth missing but grinned ear to ear nonetheless. Others had grubby noses or ears too big for them yet, but all of them held a beautiful toy in their hands with an equal measure of joy and  reverent care. 

Aziraphale moved towards the wall above a desk lined with papers, plans and a large book of numbers, peering over it to take in the children’s happy faces. 

“Do you make all of these toys? Are they for the children? How lovely,”

Behind them their host crouched near the fire and opened the lid of a small metal warming jug. A strong but sweet scent filled the room and Aziraphale breathed deeply, releasing it in a sigh. 

“I have many friends and colleagues who make the toys with me. We make them for all the children in the land,” came the reply, as china clinked. “Come sit by the fire,”

Aziraphale did, moving closer and loosening the buttons of his coat before sinking down into a large velvet chair clearly meant for a much broader occupant. Their host straightened from the warm pot of cocoa and handed Aziraphale a china cup full to the brim with a hot brown liquid swirled with cream. It smelled unlike anything Crowley had encountered, even in the greenhouses of Paradise. It smelled like comfort and warmth and of heavenly pleasures. The man’s eyes crinkled with another smile as Aziraphale cupped it in two hands and breathed deeply. Their host lifted his own mug in a small gesture of goodwill, before taking a long sip. Aziraphale returned the gesture, unable to hide his gleeful smile, and lifted the mug to his mouth and had his first ever taste of hot chocolate. Crowley watched closely, soaking up every detail of his angel’s face as he closed his eyes in rapture and swallowed. He opened his mouth to say something, but for once the little Keeper was speechless. 

Their host chuckled. 

“My friends here know the secrets of the best hot cocoa in the land, I am glad to share their talents with someone just as appreciative as myself,” 

Aziraphale nodded, still speechless after another sip. He offered it to Crowley who nudged his snout closer, flicking his tongue out to sample the rich flavour. It tasted even better than it smelled, and Crowley found the flavour seemed to soak through his entire body. Sweet and thick and utterly delicious. No wonder his angel was unable to speak. 

They stayed like that for a few minutes, the craftsman leaning against the mantle as he drank and Aziraphale sitting back in the broad chair, and drank in companionable quiet. Both watched the fire’s embers glow and crackle quietly. Crowley watched Aziraphale. After a few minutes, their host had finished his cup and gave a satisfied hum. 

“I must retire, it has been a long day of work and I have another tomorrow. Please feel free to stay by the fire as long as you wish, enjoy the rest of the cocoa. Just remember the shut the door after you when you leave,” 

Aziraphale nodded, his eyes wide with unspoken gratitudes. Their host smiled and, taking his cup and his axe with him, turned for the door. 

“Good night, dear gentleman, and a Merry Christmas,” 

“Good night,” whispered back Aziraphale, but he was already gone, and it was just the two of them. Aziraphale finished the cup of cocoa and immediately sat forward to add some more to his cup. Settling back into the chair, he lifted the cup once again to Crowley and held it steady as Crowley flicked his tongue towards the shared indulgence. The angel watched with a smile as Crowley tilted his jaw into the cocoa and tipped it back to pour some of the chocolate into his throat. 

“Oh, little thing, look at you,” chuckled Aziraphale, bringing one hand to under Crowley’s jaw and tracing the little line of chocolate that had escaped and trickled down. He held his finger up for Crowley to flick his tongue at, before sucking it from his thumb and offering Crowley the mug again. This time, Crowley found a neater way to drink, resting his snout on the surface and drawing the chocolate into his mouth in steady gulps. It was such an intoxicating flavour, he closed his eyes to savour it. 

They took turns drinking, finishing their second cup before moving onto their third. Aziraphale settled as far back into the plush chair as he could, drawing his legs up to nestle them in further and wriggling out of the heavy layers of his coat. The office was so warm that Crowley extracted himself from Aziraphale’s collar and wound his way luxuriously around his arm to rest next to him. 

Soon the warming jug was empty, and the fire so low that barely any light escaped it. Aziraphale sighed heavily, wriggling even further into their little space, and drawing Crowley closer to him. Both were full of warm chocolate, tired from the fire and hopelessly entwined together. 

“It would be so lovely to stay here all night, wouldn’t it, little thing?” sighed Aziraphale, his voice coming from somewhere above him in the low light. He could feel Aziraphale’s breath puff across his scales, smell the scent of chocolate. He bumped his head against part of Aziraphale’s hand in agreement, closing his eyes as the fingers stroked down along his head. A wash of tiredness came over him, tracing down from Aziraphale’s fingers and sweeping through his coils. He felt, rather than heard, Aziraphale yawn. 

“So easy to stay here…” came another sleepy comment. “But we shouldn’t stay long,” 

Aziraphale attempted to sound firm, but it came out as another sleepy sigh. 

“You know I didn’t mean any of them, don’t you?” he asked a minute later as they sat curled together. Crowley’s eyes, which had been slowly closing in the warmth, flicked open again in slight alarm. He found Aziraphale’s face in the shadows, the angel’s eyes closed and his face relaxed but smiling. 

“I don’t think you’re a coil of limbs, or any of those names I called you,” came a puff of chocolate across Crowley’s snout. “I think you’re absolutely wonderful, my little thing,” 

A hand slipped down across the scales on his neck, a little clumsy but tender all the same. 

“I thank all of the stars that I found you,” yawned Aziraphale, blinking one eye open just a crack to check Crowley was listening. “And that you found me too,”

Crowley watched him for a moment, before moving forward to bump his nose against Aziraphale’s cheek, hoping that this small soundless gesture said what he wanted it to. Given the sigh that poured out of Aziraphale as he cuddled his snake somehow even closer, it did. 

Aziraphale was right, it would be all too easy to stay here in this space. Pretending that the world outside of the library didn’t exist. That their absences wouldn’t be noticed. That they could stay together, wrapped up warm and safe and together, without a second thought. 

Another yawn. 

Soon the fight against sleep was over. The embers glowed. The children smiled on. And the little Keeper and his companion were curled up and fast asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is as far as I have written on Tumblr, so there will be longer gaps between chapters now but I will try to write a little more frequently. 
> 
> References: 
> 
> 'Duke of limbs' - A tall, awkward, ill-made fellow, 18th century British slang  
> 'fopling' - an insignificant or absurd man of fashion : petit maître, ladies' man  
> 'scallywag' - a person, typically a child, who behaves badly but in an amusingly mischievous rather than harmful way; a rascal.  
> 'sorner' - One who obtrudes himself on another for bed and board, Scottish.  
> 'skelpie-limmer' - A badly-behaved child. Coined by the Scottish poet Robert Burns from the old Scots word skelpie, meaning “misbehaving” or “deserving punishment.”
> 
> The man they meet in the workshop is Klaus from the 2019 Netflix movie, who is Father Christmas reimagined.


	15. The Seraph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale both do their best to lie to their co-workers.

The warmth of the small office had cooled rather drastically by the time Aziraphale and Crowley woke, and there was a settled feeling of worry. Aziraphale had wasted no time bundling himself up in the furs, and weaving Crowley back into his collar, before opening the door back into the workshop. Only, it was no longer the workshop. Instead Aziraphale found himself looking into a closet full of coats and scarves, and whatever words he had wanted to say dried up in his throat. He silently removed the furs again and slipped his hands between the garments, pushing through and stepping out into the corridor of the library once again. 

Crowley watched from where he lay wrapped as Aziraphale’s hands wound over and under each other. The door behind them shut with a dull grating of wood against stone, and the orbs above them spluttered to life. In both directions the corridors of the library were dark and completely silent. The library was asleep. They had slept the Day shift entirely away. 

Aziraphale was never particularly good at concealing his emotions internally, they had a habit of bleeding out into the physical world, and now Crowley could see some of his angel’s more nervous habits. 

His steps were shorter, a stiffness carried through from his shoulders forcing his feet to shuffle a little quicker. His hands continued to fidget and wind and tug anxiously at his robes. The lines on his face, usually occupied by excitement and joy, were all tilted downwards. Crowley squeezed across his shoulders as best he could, trying to pass on any form of comfort he could. He wasn’t sure Aziraphale even noticed he was there at first, but then a hand came up to grip the tip of his tail where it curled at his collarbone and gave a small squeeze. 

“It’s ok,” he whispered, not looking at Crowley but ahead as he hurried through the dark corridors. The lights above them made small efforts to glow, but they passed by so quickly that many of them didn’t get the chance. 

“It’s ok,” repeated Aziraphale again. Crowley knew that this was more for himself than for Crowley’s benefit. Another squeeze of his tail and those hands were back to winding over and under each other again. 

“It’s not too late, it’s not a problem,” 

It was too late. The entire Day had passed, and now it was deep into the Night shift. Crowley felt a tension growing deep in his own belly, but his concern for his angel outweighed his concern for himself. Soon the library corridors, dark as they were, gave way to the great hall. It was empty and silent, but the lights still flickered. Aziraphale slowed down, just a few steps shy of the exit before stopping and staring unfocussed outward. 

Crowley waited, watching the angel, before moving to weave down his arm and watched his face carefully. There was a complicated arrangement of emotion hidden under the glaze of his eyes, like something had stunned him into stillness. The worry in Crowley’s belly grew, part of him loudly trying to remind him that he was extremely late for his shift, that his absence had definitely been noticed, but this was entirely drowned out by his concern for his angel. Unsure what to do, he pushed closer, bumping his face alongside Aziraphale’s cheekbone. 

A puff of air ran across his scales, and a hand came up to cup Crowley’s head carefully.

“Oh, little thing,” came a sigh. “Sweet little thing,” 

The hand that cupped him became two hands, and he found himself being untangled from his angel. Aziraphale lowered him down carefully, kneeling as he placed Crowley down on the floor. The Keeper had a ghost of a smile across his face and warmth pooling back into his eyes now. 

“Time to say goodnight, I think, little thing. You to yours, and me to mine. Whatever tomorrow brings, we will deal with tomorrow,” 

He was nodding a little as he spoke, as if convincing himself more than he needed to convince Crowley. Crowley stared at him unblinkingly, searching his face for any kind of hint of what was happening inside his angel’s head. Aziraphale smiled a little deeper and straightened, before moving to the exit and shuffling out of the library, as if reluctance was slowing his feet. 

Crowley watched after him for a moment, that uneasy feeling settling in his stomach only growing worse. Watching Aziraphale leave, he felt a sense of loss he couldn’t placate. Like he was standing on the edge of a drop, with the cold rushing past him and a sensation of tipping over creating a surge inside his head. 

Above him the orb which had attempted to glow during their goodbyes was now dimming, leaving Crowley’s still form sheathed in the silence and darkness of the library. He stared at the empty space that once held his angel, a door back into Paradise and into his other life. 

A spark flared within him as this thought became solid. He was living with two realities, one bursting with colour and texture and unadulterated joys, and another wreathed only in shadows and wasted hours waiting. 

What was his life if it were not for his Keeper? What was he without Aziraphale now? 

  
  
  


He should have been running. 

He should have been moving with a lot more haste than he was, but he found that his feet refused to move any faster. At first he wondered if it was due to the length of time he had stayed without limbs, but as he began his climb upwards, he knew it wasn’t that. Like Aziraphale, he found himself slow and reluctant to leave the library. It was like walking through thick mud. His head was thick with storm clouds, he watched his body move upwards as if standing back from himself. 

Emerging in the Heavens, he was surprised not to find Sariel waiting for him. He paused at the top of the staircase and looked for the angel, but could only see others of his unit fully immersed in their work. He swallowed heavily, his tongue feeling lazy in his heavy head, and pushed off into the air. His work station wasn’t vacant when he arrived. There were pots open, a brush left to one side. A ladder was propped up against his latest arrangements of asteroids he had been weaving into a belt. 

“Crowley,” 

A voice came from his shoulder, and he turned his head just enough to see Raum standing there. She was staring at him with those steady eyes again, a slight smile twisting her mouth. 

“Did you-”

“I told Sariel you were kind enough to go get some more rings for me, did you find any?” 

Her tone was conversational, but she spoke at a volume that carried. He glanced over his other shoulder, frowning a little. When he looked back at her, she tilted her head and made a face to prompt him to answer. 

“Er… no. The Smiths are making more now. Tomorrow maybe,” he said, clearing his throat as he realised how unusual his voice sounded coming from his throat instead of bouncing around inside his skull. “Sorry,” he added, averting his eyes from her intense stare. 

She nodded, and shrugged. 

“You can only ask, I suppose. How will you know if you don’t ask questions?” 

She tilted her head again and gave him a smile which didn’t manage to reach her eyes. Crowley swallowed, frowning a little. He flicked his gaze from her to his work station, and then back again. There was something that made him uncomfortable around Raum, like she could pierce right through him with those unblinking eyes and smile his secrets away. 

“Was…” he hesitated. “Did Sariel notice I was gone?”

Raum smiled again, before inclining her head up the ladder. Crowley’s hands obeyed before he knew what he was doing, and he climbed up. Looking back she offered him an asteroid he hadn’t seen her pick up. 

“You weren’t gone, you just went to the workshops,” she told him. “Sariel likes to keep track, doesn’t he? He likes to know where we all are, all the time,” 

Crowley frowned to himself as he positioned the asteroid into the silvery belt he had laced together. Looking away from Raum, her voice seemed to slip around behind him, wriggling into his head uninvited. He gritted his teeth, continuing to fiddle with the asteroid and refusing to look back at her. She was going to ask him where he was, and he didn’t want her to see him lying. 

The moment stretched on uncomfortably, and he ran out of modifications he could make to the asteroid, forcing him to turn back towards her for another. 

She wasn’t looking at him, she was looking just to the side of him, next to his right shoulder. Her face was unreadable, but then another slow smile grew as she looked back at him. There was a glint in her eye, but unlike the sparkle of Aziraphale’s eyes as he sampled a bite of cake, this glint was hard and cold like the centre of a comet. 

She handed him an asteroid, teeth now bared, and continued to hold it steady as he reached to take it. 

“Maybe time for another plucking, don’t you think?” she said sweetly, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head just a little. Crowley froze for a moment, his grip on the asteroid faltering before he collected himself and forced himself into a casual movement to lift the asteroid and pushed his robes away as he climbed another rung of the ladder. In one motion, he flicked his hair back and glanced over his shoulder to confirm what he already knew but suddenly doubted. 

“Thank you for your help,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll bring you the rings when they’re ready,” 

He refused to look back at her again. He focussed only on delivering a performance of casual busyness and vague boredom, as if nothing in Paradise could bother him. He refused to look back at Raum, despite feeling her unnerving gaze rake across his back and somehow deeper. 

He refused to look back as, on another plane of existence, his feathers ruffled. 

  
  


Usually Crowley didn’t rush to leave first, the time between the end of his shift and the beginning of the day was usually irrelevant to him aside from a few hours engaging in sloth. This time he had to force himself to keep a neutral expression externally, as the skin across the top of his back itched violently. He fought to keep the irritant twitch suppressed, waiting until he could return to his room and disrobe. 

The bell sounded and finally he could leave, merging with the usual chatting crowd of Starmakers. He avoided eyes and opted to forgo supper as he did his best to slip away unnoticed. He felt Raum’s eyes on his back like a chill breeze, the same as he had earlier, and he didn’t look back. In the downstairs corridors of rooms, he quickened his pace until he was finally - blissfully - alone. Soon the robes were discarded and he cracked the various joints along his bipedal form, rolling his neck and reaching to stretch the cramped muscle along his shoulder. With a deep breath and a satisfied shiver, his wings spilt forward and joined the series of cracked joints as he stretched them out as far as he could in the small private space. He sunk face first onto the unmade bed heavily and rolled his shoulders, letting his wings slump back wherever they ended up. 

Burying his face into the pillow he groaned loudly and long. The groan turned into a growl, another shiver passing from his shoulders down to the tips of his primaries. He’d forgotten how uncomfortable it was to pull his wings forward after leaving them so long in another plane. He’d spent so long as a snake that his legs felt like jelly, and even longer without these two enormous limbs that now punished him for neglect. 

Staying hidden in the pillow, he let his mind wander. If Aziraphale were here, he knew he would offer to ease the strain on his poor tired muscles...

It wasn’t uncommon for angels to form friendships, particularly within their kin, or brotherships with soldiers in their regiment, but these friendships rarely meant more than passing familiarity. It was uncommon for one angel to be alone with another, and even rarer to trust another with the handling of your wings. Purposely touching another angel, let alone their wings was simply  _ not the way things are _ . 

Yet Crowley knew with certainty that were his Keeper here with him, he would not hesitate to reach his clever fingers across the divide and slip them through the soft fluffy down and find the knot, to press with solid thumbs and steady fingers and  _ squeeze _ . 

Crowley groaned again, suddenly feeling exhausted with the everything of it all. A few more minutes of wallowing and a couple more melodramatic moans into the pillow, and he pushed himself upright. His poor wings dragged with him as he settled cross legged on the bed and reached for his right wing, easing it across his knee. He smirked a little, seeing the trails of dust from his floor and thinking of Aziraphale’s permanently dusty wings, feet and robes. 

“That angel was not born to be white,” he muttered, brushing his hand along his longest primary. 

Soon the familiar rhythm took over and he let his hands take over the conscious thought of sorting through his feathers one by one. His eyes watched, but he wasn’t seeing his maintenance. Instead his mind wandered to thoughts of his angel. 

What would Aziraphale be doing now? Sleeping maybe, although Crowley got the sense that Aziraphale didn’t care to sleep when there were hours he could be reading. He hadn’t taken a book with him, so maybe he was simply resting the way they were all meant to: in quiet reflection of the day and in Reverence to Her Divine Will. Thrilling.

Crowley’s attention was brought back to the centre of his focus, to where the soft white of his wings was interrupted. He sighed through his nose, frowning a little at the feather which stood out so sharply against the rest. It was small, a little tucked away but still visible to anyone who cared to look. 

He dug his fingers down to find the root, giving it a little wiggle to test its hold. It was held strong, so he grit his teeth and gripped it hard between two fingers, giving a sharp tug. Like many feathers before it, it released with a shot of pain through his wing. He dipped back in with his hand to find the torn patch of skin and press on the small bloom of red there, willing it to seal quickly. Even if the blood didn’t spread across the remaining feathers, he would have to go to the light baths tonight, let them pour across his neglected wings and heal any bruised patches from plucking. 

Using one hand to stem the blood, he held the feather up and rotated it slowly. It was beautiful. It was a shame to have had to pull it so early, as it would have continued to have a beautiful form as it grew. The rachis was strong and the sheen of light that played across the surface gleamed with refractive light, a small cascade of colours rippling across the barbs. 

He sighed heavily, removing his other hand once satisfied the blood was stemmed. He dropped the feather onto his lap and continued his grooming, already spotting another close by that required the same attention. He sighed again, his aching muscles already weary without the further jolts of pain he knew were coming. 

It took nearly two hours, and over a dozen feathers pulled, until he was satisfied that his wings were back in a suitable state. The small collection of feathers lay in his lap, cut off from their purpose. He gathered them up and looked at them closely, critical that every single one of them had been growing perfectly before being plucked. It was a shame, but necessary. 

Dimly, in the back of his mind, he wondered if Aziraphale would mind. Maybe he wouldn’t care. Maybe he would look at the gleaming colour of these rejected feathers and proclaim them works of art, the same way he praised the glittering colour of Crowley’s scales. 

Pulling the mattress up, he tucked the latest away with the dozens other feathers which had lost their shine from being ground into the floor under the mattress, the colours dull and the barbs fractured. Pushing them away and sealing them from sight, Crowley wondered briefly again about his Keeper. 

Maybe Aziraphale would really love black, not just in scales, but in feathers too. 

  
  


The thought of staying away from the library had briefly appeared, and been quickly dismissed. Whatever repercussions there were for Aziraphale’s absence, Crowley knew that the angel would want him there for comfort. He ignored the thought that pointed out that his presence there could possibly lead to more trouble if he was spotted, given his ineptitude at hiding, but it was a risk worth taking. 

He came to the library even earlier than usual, and hunkered down in his little nest area. Arriving earlier felt like a smart idea, but as he lay there in the shadows his treacherous head started to ruminate and take him down an unpleasant path. 

He had never really seen Aziraphale interact with any other Keepers, except in brief moments where they swapped piles of books, or passed each other in a corridor. There weren’t many of them, and there didn’t seem to be any kind of obvious hierarchy to their order. Crowley wasn’t sure who would discipline Aziraphale if that’s what it came to. 

The thought of anyone scolding his angel made his scales ripple in anger. 

What if Aziraphale took it badly and was upset? Not just at himself for reading books, but at Crowley for being a distraction? A bad influence. What if he looked at Crowley and felt regret? 

This dark path of thoughts swirled in his head and he found himself unable to break away from a repeating pattern of being sent away again and again by his angel, each time with more anger, more damnation and more blame. 

He didn’t know how long he lingered there in the dark, surrounded by his dark thoughts, but a rustling of footsteps outside pulled him out. Bare feet on the floor, and the spluttering of lights above them trying to wake up. 

“Little thing?” came a hurried whisper. Crowley snuck his nose out and greeted Aziraphale, who was looking a little unkempt even by his standards, with dark rings under his eyes and unruly curls. Aziraphale smiled when he saw Crowley, who had realised that Aziraphale was early. The bell had yet to ring. 

“I must be quick, I’m sorry to rush you,” he said, holding out his hands to welcome Crowley into them. “I have to speak to my superior at the break of Day, and I wanted to get to you early, make sure you weren’t waiting for me for too long,” 

Once Crowley was fully coiled into Aziraphale’s arms, the angel straightened and set off into the library quickly. Crowley kept his eyes on the angel, noting his untidy appearance and general air of fluster. 

“My absences have been noted, it seems,” muttered Aziraphale, taking a turn to the right and easily outpacing the struggling orbs above them. “I’m not sure what they’ll say, but it’s best to be prepared,”

After a few minutes, Aziraphale led them into a corridor with much grander bookcases than Crowley was used to. The corridors here were wider, the wood a deep varnished wood with sumptuous carvings and golden fixtures. Instead of hanging orbs, light from a series of bronze lanterns that hung on golden chains and let out a warm honey-toned glow. The floor beneath them were deep indigo tiles, some decorated with little stars of metal sunken into the ceramic. The books also seemed to be getting much grander and larger. Crowley wondered why Aziraphale never brought him here, it seemed like a much more extravagant part of the library for Aziraphale to enjoy. He got his answer shortly. 

Aziraphale stopped at a towering bookcase which sloped to the right, a dull glow illuminating the corridor from around the corner. He was careful to stay out of the path of the light, and even his footsteps seemed hushed as he crept closer. Lifting Crowley up from around his neck, he helped him slide into an opening in the bookcase between two gigantic tomes. 

“You will need to wait here, little thing,” he whispered, his voice hardly made of breath. “I don’t want my superior to see you, I’m not sure how I would explain a being as wonderful as you being in the library. Will you stay hidden for me here?”

Crowley hissed softly, inclining his head. Aziraphale smiled, the smile reaching the crinkles of his eyes. 

“Such a good little thing,” he said absentmindedly, his gaze slipping from Crowley down to his robes. “Oh, I look a state,” 

He started trying to brush the dust from his garments, attempting to rearrange them in a more organised fashion, but it didn’t seem to be having the effect he wanted. Sighing, he looked back up at Crowley and completely and undeniably  _ pouted _ .

“Do I look shackbaggerly to you?” he asked in a small voice, and Crowley knew that he was starting to get upset. Maybe the same spiral of thoughts had been with him all night, which would explain the unkempt appearance. 

Crowley quickly shook his head, and motioned for Aziraphale to come closer. Using the tip of his tail, he worked through the unruly mop of hair one curl at a time. He could feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him as he worked to separate and tame the curls, and refused to acknowledge the look of pure unadulterated devotion being beamed full force at him, lest he simply cease to function. As he worked, the smallest breath of will flowed from the where the approximation of his hands would be into the air between them. It moved like a vapor of mist, skimming over Aziraphale’s robes and collecting dust from the fibres of his robe as it moved before finally settling on the floor and melting away. 

Soon the deed was done, and Aziraphale was at least looking a little more presentable. There was nothing Crowley could do about the dark circles under his eyes, or the fidget of his hands, but when Aziraphale lifted his hands to feel his hair, the smile that came seemed to invigorate his own being. The angel brushed his hands across the front of his robe, recreasing his sash correctly, and gave a satisfied little wriggle. 

Instead of saying something, Aziraphale leaned forward and planted a kiss to Crowley’s head. 

“Thank you,” came a gentle whisper. “Now be good and stay here,” 

The angel turned towards the spilling of light, lifted his chin, dropped his shoulders and gave one last correction to the robes over his stomach, and walked around the corner. As he did the light grew stronger, and a low humming sound that reverberated through the wooden shelves could be heard. 

“Greetings, Jophiel, Seraph of Wisdom,” came Aziraphale's voice. He sounded confident. Crowley hoped he felt confident as well. Jophiel was one of the Seraphim who stayed in their true form, or at least an approximation of it. Jophiel hadn’t been seen in the common halls for many many years, Crowley had forgotten about their appointment to the library, as both its guard and the source of its eternal preservation. Before the library, Jophiel was one of the great burning lights that had held up the Heavens while they were being built. Huge and burning brighter than any star, they were a beacon of fierce holy light surrounded by three rotating rings of gold, each one studded with countless eyes which saw all, and spoke little. Add to that some seriously impressive wings and you had one hell of an angel. 

The humming grew louder, rising in pitch and volume steadily. The light changed as well, as if a door was opening and spilling out its contents. Crowley, against every better judgement in his head, snuck a little closer, edging the side of his face around the corner to try and catch a glimpse of the seraph. 

At first he saw nothing but piercing light, as he grew accustomed to it he saw Aziraphale standing as a small shadow in front of the great circular form of Jophiel. Before where they had been an orb of rotating wheels, they were now somehow embedded into the walls of the library themselves. The three rings lay in concentric golden bands around a central window of light, one which had been shuttered like a great eyelid as the seraph rested in this half form. Now the light was open and the many eyes embedded like jewels in the golden rings were all fixed on Aziraphale, who seemed so small in comparison to them. 

“Aziraphale, Keeper and principality,” 

Jophiel spoke without lips, with their voice emanating from the light as a booming echo. The sound seemed to travel through the walls and floor of the library like a seismic vibration, and Crowley hiding in his shelf involuntarily shivered from the sensation. 

“Do you know why you were summoned, Aziraphale, Keeper and principality?” 

It was hard to identify the tone in which Jophiel spoke, if they were displeased or stoic, or even compassionate. The eyes that observed his small angel gave nothing away. 

“I was not told, but I believe I know why. I have not been keeping up with my duties to Her and to the library. For this I am truly sorry,” came Aziraphale’s voice, rising a little to be heard over the power that came from Jophiel's gaze. The seraph didn’t respond, as if waiting for Aziraphale to continue. 

Aziraphale dithered a little, his hands fidgeting behind his back, and then sunk his head in a small bow. 

“I grew distracted by the many works I was charged to keep, I read their words and marvelled in them. Her work through their hands drew my eye away from my duty, and for this I repent of my folly,”

Crowley frowned a little. Aziraphale didn’t sound like himself, as he spoke of his failings to Jophiel. The angel, usually so expressive and attentive to all the small motions of Crowley, sounded rehearsed and formal, almost  _ bored. _

There was further silence, as Jophiel regarded the Keeper, and Crowley fought the urge to fidget himself. Aziraphale was still partially bowed, averting his eyes from Jophiel in contrition. Was Jophiel waiting for more from him? Did they not think he had confessed to everything? Aziraphale most definitely hadn’t, but how much did the passive seraph know when they slept secure in the wall?

“This which you speak of is the truth,” came the booming reply after some time. “You speak of folly, is there any other action to which you feel shame?” 

Aziraphale straightened his posture. 

“No, Jophiel,” 

There had been many firsts in Crowley’s time with Aziraphale: the first time he received a kiss, the first time he realised Aziraphale was as stubborn as he was sweet, and now Crowley realised one more first: Aziraphale, small and soft-spoken as he was, had an unreadable poker face. 

The seraph regarded Aziraphale for some time, before speaking again. 

“Your actions are those of whimsy, not of wilful discontent. In this instance there will be no consequence, aside from a warning to heed your duty, Aziraphale, Keeper and principality. Is this understood?”

Aziraphale gave a small bow again, motioning his head towards his superior. 

“It is understood. My gratitude to you, Jophiel, Seraph of Wisdom.”

Another long pause. Crowley started to suspect this was more due to the effort it took the seraph to will their words into the air, rather than a deliberate attempt to unnerve Aziraphale. 

“I do not wish to be disturbed by you again. Please continue to operate as directed without oversight. I have only one request for you at this time,” 

Aziraphale straightened again and smiled brightly at the seraph. 

“Of course, Jophiel, what can I do for you?”

The words, when they came, were drawn out and slow to take form in the air, the light dimming a little. 

“Please… rotate my books. I grow tired of these ones...they speak too loud,”

With this, the shuttered eyelid began to droop down, and the shining light was dulled as the seraph returned to their preferred state of slumber. The eyes on the rings closed one by one, with one last green one staying open just a touch longer to eyeball Aziraphale. Soon, too, this one sunk shut and the seraph returned to stasis. 

Aziraphale bowed again and walked backwards towards Crowley, holding one hand out behind his back to reach for Crowley. Once safely around the corner and moving quickly away from the seraph, Aziraphale caught Crowley’s eye, gave him a gleeful smirk and, giddy with the excitement of dodging punishment,  _ winked _ . 

“I think that went rather well, don’t you?” 

Aziraphale was revelling in his ‘scolding’ in an almost indulgent manner. The angel seemed delighted that he had successfully ‘hookwinked’ a superior and had gotten away with what was most definitely an outright lie to the higher angel. Crowley didn’t know if he was envious or impressed, but he certainly couldn’t complain that there were no real consequences to their adventures together. 

Aside from his own scolding, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. Nothing mattered while he was looped around his angel. 

They had spent the day doing as Jophiel had requested, Aziraphale ferrying stacks of books away from the grander bookcases and finding places for them all over the library. 

“I’m not surprised they were getting fed up with these ones, just a lot of scholars debating gospel translations and arguing over interpretations of Hell. All a bit gloomy, if you ask me,” he had told Crowley as he carried four enormous tomes away to tuck them away somewhere else. Crowley dragged his gaze away from Aziraphale’s easy grip on the heavy books to meet his angel’s eyes. 

“They don’t really care for fiction or natural history, and they’ve already gone through most early philosophy and western thinking. We shall have to find them something else for the next few decades at least,” 

Crowley wasn’t sure exactly what arrangement of his features relayed surprise at this, but he achieved it, prompting Aziraphale to elaborate. 

“Oh, you see, Jophiel isn’t particularly interested in the running of the library. No one really is, these days. They spend most of their time in rest woven into the walls of the library, using their divinity to maintain the bookcases while they listen to whatever the books have to say. From what I understand it can be quite relaxing to sleep to the sound of voices,”

Crowley was mystified. He had heard of some of the older seraphs going into a resting state, similar to Jophiel where they would become more like a central rooted power source, rather than a mobile one such as the lesser angels, but the idea of an angel of any rank essentially retiring seemed unheard of. 

As Aziraphale moved back and forward from the seraph’s resting space, Crowley coiled around his shoulders and thought about it. 

He supposed it made sense, the idea of an angel who had been a major figure in the past aeons of Her time, being able to release some of the burden of their duty and be allowed to rest again. The idea of  _ not _ doing as directed, or at least being  _ allowed _ to choose it, was as foreign to Crowley as the concept of aardvarks had been only a few passing weeks ago. 

Could one be able to stop? Could one be able to choose? 

“I think maybe some lovely Eastern philosophy would be nice for them, don’t you think, little thing? Sprinkle in some poetry and legends and they should be happy for a while,” 

Crowley absentmindedly agreed with a flick of his tongue against Aziraphale’s ear, still distracted by thoughts. 

“I must say I was a little worried when I received the summons,” Aziraphale told him quietly as his fingers skimmed over the section devoted to Chinese poetry. “I think the last time Jophiel wanted to speak to me was back when the Earth’s core was being spun, goodness, maybe 4 aeons ago?”

Crowley dragged himself out of the tangle in his head and redirected his attention towards his Keeper. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in trouble before,” Aziraphale said quietly, frowning a little as he translated the title of a particularly large book in his head, before sliding it free and adding it to the pile in his arms. 

“There’s never really been an opportunity to be in trouble. After all…” he stopped and met Crowley’s gaze with an undeniable twinkle in his eye, “How much trouble could one  _ really _ get into in a library,” 

Crowley hissed softly, nudging his head against Aziraphale’s cheekbone. 

“You’re right,” agreed Aziraphale, another giddy little smirk growing, “How much trouble could one get into  _ on their own, _ ” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!
> 
> 'shackbaggerly' - in a loose, disorderly manner. Taken from _A Dictionary of the Sussex Dialect and Collection of Provincialisms in Use in the County of Sussex_ by W.D. Parish (as known as Google).


	16. The Colonel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately I've sustained a pretty bad injury to the tendons in my right hand and this means writing is quite difficult and slow. I was already writing at quite a slow pace and unfortunately this will only make it worse. I will try to write little and often to keep chapters coming. Many thanks to anyone still with me!

A few days or so passed of ‘good’ behaviour, with Aziraphale happy to keep fussing over his books and Crowley spending the days wrapped around his shoulder in a contented doze, before another opportunity presented itself. 

Crowley had lost track of where they were in the library, and was engaging in his second favourite pastime of napping with his head tucked into the collar of Aziraphale’s robe, just under his right ear. Somewhere nearby he could hear Aziraphale partaking in his second favourite pastime too: steadily turning pages. 

A soft sigh of another completed book, and movement as Aziraphale got up and started tucking the book away. The rustle of parchment as he gathered his list close, licked his quill, scratched off another title. 

“I don’t know about you, little thing, but I am tempted by something a little bit different, aren’t you?”

Crowley roused himself enough to slip his head free and flick his tongue against the skin under Aziraphale’s neck, earning him a giggle. 

“Not that I’m bored, at all. After all, this job is so rewarding but I can’t help but feel it would be nice to… you know…  _ indulge _ ,” came the hasty justifications and wistful conclusion. 

_ Scandalous, _ thought Crowley, and gave an extended yawn that ended in a shiver passing through the coils arranged across his angel. 

“Shall we… go for a walk?” came an excited whisper. Crowley nodded his head, and off they went. This time it was Aziraphale’s turn to pick the destination, to choose the forks to go down. He hummed over his decisions, stopping to run his fingers across the spines of books. 

“I think we’re heading towards the bakery section again,” he told Crowley with a pleased little smile. “Maybe we could visit Dorothy again?” 

The library, despite Aziraphale’s best efforts, clearly had other ideas and continued to offer them choices that had less to do with cottage kitchens, and more to do with manners. 

“‘ _ The Art of Elbow Placement’ _ ?” Aziraphale read, his finger tracing a cream coloured book in confusion. He trailed off into thought and then ran a hand absentmindedly over Crowley’s middle section. 

“But what if you don’t have elbows?” 

Crowley hissed a small chuckle and bumped his head under Aziraphale’s hand for a scratch across his neck. 

They continued on, only stopping every so often for Aziraphale to tilt his head to read the titles. 

“Oh, look at this - ‘ _ Seen but Not Heard, A Guide for New Brides’ _ . Oh dear…”

“‘ _ Good Housekeeping: A Servant a Day keeps Communists Away’ _ ? What in Heaven...”

“Oh no, where are we going? ‘ _ Women: Objects or Property?’ _ ”

With each new bookcase, Aziraphale grew a little more dismayed. His hands had been wringing a little at first, but had taken to winding in amongst Crowley’s coils to keep them still. The poor angel still looked a little fraught. 

“I’m not sure I like some of these books,” he whispered to Crowley, looking around cautiously in case the books heard him. “Maybe you should take over, you always seem to do better than me at these things,” 

_ Too late, _ thought Crowley, who had spotted the door before Aziraphale had. It was quite plain in comparison to some of their discoveries. It was painted white, with a latch key, and rather narrow. He nudged Aziraphale’s hand and inclined towards it. Aziraphale made a small dismayed noise in his throat. 

“Do you think it will be ok?” he whispered. “Nothing too… chauvinistic?”

_ Only one way to find out, _ Crowley supposed. Still when had the library led them astray? Well, aside from the Mad Hatter, but that was a fluke. 

Aziraphale approached the door cautiously, his hands fidgeting together in front of him again as he hesitantly reached for the latch. Crowley watched his hand make the journey towards it, then retreat, then back again for several moments. He fixed his eyes on his angel and tilted his head. Aziraphale’s face was a little crumpled with indecision and he was chewing the inside of his lip, an action Crowley hadn’t seen from him before. 

“Do you think we should? Maybe we should go back to categorising the math journals, those trigonometry values are bound to prove useful eventually...:”

Crowley rolled his eyes and slid down the angel’s arm, twisting his nose to push the latch down before the angel couldn’t second guess himself any more. They had worked for two and a half days  _ solid _ (not counting the shift patterns, and supper, and multiple books Aziraphale paused to read, and  _ definitely  _ not counting the nap) and now it was time for something completely different. 

The door gave a small creak as it opened, and soon Aziraphale’s doubts were forgotten as sunlight filtered through from inside. The door was narrow, so fitting Aziraphale’s wings proved a little difficult. Having squeezed through they found themselves in a small but pretty bedroom. The walls had floral wallpaper, and the window had panes of wobbly glass. There was a bed laden with multiple blankets, and a small table with some flowers. Crowley slid from Aziraphale onto the bed, as the angel struggled to turn back to find the door he had emerged from was now a very small closet, with a rail of hanging dresses and coats in it. His wings may have made it through the door, but they immediately got wedged between the wall and the bed frame as he turned and he cursed under his breath, trying his best to lift them free of the furniture. 

“Bit of a squeeze,” he conceded as he turned back to Crowley with pink cheeks. Crowley flicked his tongue towards his angel and gave a little wriggle. 

“Oh, do you think so?” Aziraphale asked, his eyebrows flicking in surprise. “Do you think I should?” 

Crowley was about to give another wiggle, when a polite knock came at the other door and a voice filtered through the wood. 

“Are you decent?” 

“Oh! Um-”

“Well, I’m coming in, so you best be,” came the voice, and the door opened to reveal a bright face with sparkling eyes and a head of golden coloured tightly curled ringlets, wrestled into a neat hairstyle. The girl smiled at Aziraphale widely. 

“Are you well settled? 

“I… um, well-”

“Mrs Jennings is expecting us, only you must hurry!” she told him, moving forward to reach past Aziraphale and into the closet he had just vacated. She rummaged before pulling something out and handing it towards him with another smile. 

“Oh, is this for me?” Aziraphale asked, a little ghost of a pleased smile creeping onto his face. 

“Well you can’t wear that, it’s all...dusty. As for these-”

Aziraphale took a well timed step back as she went to reach her hand towards his wings, and made a polite noise. 

“Thank you,” he said graciously. “I shall be along in...just a minute,” he said, looking towards Crowley and then back at the girl. 

“Make haste, I don’t wish to be late to this picnic - Willoughby will never forgive me for leaving him at the mercy of Mrs Jennings and all of her scheming!” 

And with that she was gone, pulling the bedroom door closed and leaving Aziraphale to look at Crowley with a vaguely stunned face. 

“I suppose… I should change?” the Keeper said, looking down at the dress in his hands. “Oh, I do hope it fits! You’re right though - I will need to focus. I don’t think this dress has been made with wings in mind!”

A few minutes of untangling robes and fiddling with the smallest buttons Crowley had seen, and Aziraphale was looking very pleased with himself in his new dress. It was a very nice dress, in an ivory muslin with a delicate pattern of stripes down the floor length skirt and the sheer sleeves. It was modest, but left Aziraphale’s collarbones and the nape of his neck visible, which was somehow very appealing to Crowley. 

His angel was sitting at the small dressing table in the corner of the room, fussing with his hair and making all sorts of little noises of unhappiness. Crowley, in his usual serpentine silence, was arranged on the mirror in such a way that he could gaze with unadulterated devotion upon his Keeper. 

“It just won’t do!” Aziraphale cried out with a small grunt of frustration. “I am hopeless with hair, it never does what I want it to - just sort of flicks around, looking all…” he searched for a word, looking at Crowley with beseeching eyes, “Fluffy!”

There was a knock at the door, and another woman peeked around it. She was older than the other, very clearly her sister, and had the kindest eyes Crowley had ever seen other than his angel. 

“Do forgive the intrusion, but can I offer assistance?”

“Oh, please,” nodded Aziraphale as she moved into the room and towards them. “I’m so sorry,”

“Not at all! May I?” she smiled at him in the mirror, and reached for the brush. Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley watched with a small flicker of envy as their acquaintance began to brush the light curls. 

“I believe I met your sister earlier?” Aziraphale asked, his eyes watching the steady movement of her hands. Crowley watched as well, and couldn’t help but notice that his angel’s hair seemed to be a little bit longer than it originally appeared. In fact, as she brushed it out, the usually fluffy curls seemed to be evolving into quite beautiful glossy locks of white gold hair. 

“Ah yes, Marianne was very keen to welcome you. She is a little impatient,”

“Yes… Ah, my name is Aziraphale. It was very kind of you to entertain my company, Miss Dashwood,”

The lady looked into the mirror and smiled at him, placing the brush down and reaching instead for the pins. 

“It is our pleasure, Aziraphale. But please, call me Elinor,” 

Crowley watched carefully as Elinor braided different sections of Aziraphale’s hair and then twisted it into place, forming a chignon with a looped braid. A few curls hung either side of Aziraphale’s face, framing him so beautifully that Crowley could scarcely breathe, let alone look away from the angel. Aziraphale, for his part, was smiling so sweetly at his own reflection, one hand lifting to brush into his shining hair. His blue eyes shimmered lightly, and a little pink blossomed across his cheeks. 

“Thank you kindly, Elinor,” he said softly. Their host smiled again, and reached one hand out to the mirror, offering her palm to Crowley. He looked at her hand dumbly, before looking back at Aziraphale and forgot to make the thoughts in his brain connect as he stared at his beautiful angel. He looked back at Elinor and flicked his tongue, caught somewhere between enraptured and mystified. 

She gave him another coax, nodding as she did so. 

“Come along now. We must be on our way, and if you are to travel, you may not wish to be bothered by my younger sister Margaret - she will want to play with you all afternoon, a creature so exotic,” 

Aziraphale giggled a little, looking as pleased as Crowley had ever seen him. The angel was practically wriggling in delight as Crowley was lifted from the mirror. Through a few deft motions of Elinor’s hands (and discreet miracle on Crowley’s part), he found himself wound through Aziraphale’s curls alongside the braid like a piece of exquisite jewellery. He had narrowed his size as far as he thought he could manage, slimming down to nestle within the angel’s hair with a degree of glamorous subtlety. He tucked his tail in and wriggled to lay his head just at the crown of Aziraphale’s forehead, meeting his angel’s eye in the mirror and flicking his tongue towards the giddy angel. 

“Oh, little thing, you look so sweet and charming! What a brilliant little snake you are, darling one,” Aziraphale told him, smiling from ear to ear and aiming all of that delighted love straight at Crowley. “Oh thank you, Elinor, you are a miracle worker,” 

_ Well, if you’re counting miracles…  _ thought Crowley to himself. But, even if the credit wasn’t his, the reward of being nestled in his angel’s soft shining hair was undeniable. 

“Now that you are ready, we have an afternoon engagement to attend,” smiled Elinor. “I hope you enjoy lawn croquet, for I doubt we will be requested to do anything but!” 

Crowley found himself in quite an unusual point of view for the afternoon’s events. Nestled as he was within Aziraphale’s new hair style, he benefited from being able to observe quietly and being left unbothered by younger people, but he also was unable to watch his angel’s enjoyment of events either. Instead he allowed himself to doze happily surrounded by Aziraphale’s sweet smelling hair as Aziraphale was introduced to several more humans in various states of finery before sitting at a series of small tables to enjoy afternoon tea and cakes (one of which Aziraphale was delighted to learn he enjoyed, and the other a welcome return). 

Conversation was slow, often trivial, but Aziraphale seemed to be enjoying himself commenting on the weather with the ladies and discussing the ‘merits of the season’ with the few men who accompanied them. Despite being used to the archaic language of Heaven, Crowley found that these humans had a way of communicating that seemed to centre on never really saying much, but yet saying it in as many words as possible. 

It reminded him of some of the angels he was less keen on in Heaven… 

“Oh, Aziraphale, you have a wit about you! Such manners are in short supply here, for dear Elinor here is so serious and our lovely Marianne is far too besotted with our dear friend Willoughby that she scarce says more than three words together until he presents, and once done so, they only speak to each other!” came the jolly voice of the larger woman sitting beside Aziraphale, leaning closer to him to share the joke - if there had been one - while teasing Elinor who sat opposite them, smiling as she watched her youngest sister Margaret throw hoops. 

“Oh, my dear Mrs Jennings, do believe me when I say that you will soon grow tired of me, for my stories are so few and truly, I know very few jokes,” 

“Nonsense, my dear, I can see stories for the ages tucked away in that pretty head of yours, and don’t think I won’t wheedle them out of you!”

Aziraphale laughed, and reached for his teacup again, clearly enjoying this ridiculous yet charismatic lady very much. Crowley let his eyes close slowly, finding himself lulled and warm. 

“Ah, my dear Aziraphale, look! Here comes Colonel Brandon, I must introduce you. Now he has arrived we can turn to our entertainment for the afternoon, for a game of croquet not won against the Colonel is a game not won at all,” 

“You give me too much credit, Mrs Jennings. Good afternoon,” came a smooth voice as the gentleman himself appeared and smiled, inclining his head in greeting. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Colonel,” returned Aziraphale, and Crowley’s eyes opened in surprise. Aziraphale had sounded shy for a moment there, possibly a little bit breathless. 

“You must be the Lady Aziraphale, I have heard naught but wonderful things of you,” the Colonel told Aziraphale as he led him towards the marked out lawn. “But nothing of your beauty or fashions, or what beautiful hair pieces you have,” 

Crowley did his best to glower at the Colonel from within Aziraphale’s hair, even as Aziraphale’s hand came up to touch him, checking on the position of his companion. 

“You are most kind! I am excessively fond of my serpent, isn’t my little thing so beautiful?” 

“Indeed,” agreed the Colonel, offering his hand to Aziraphale to led him down the garden steps. “A beautiful hair piece for a beautiful Lady. Tell me, my Lady, do you care for a game of croquet? Mrs Jennings and Sir John are very passionate for the game. Maybe you share their passion for the sport?”

“I confess I know little of the rules, but if you would be so kind as to teach me, maybe I could share in their passion,” 

The Colonel smiled graciously as they reached the court, and even curled up in Aziraphale’s hair, Crowley could feel the angel beaming back. He flicked his tongue indignantly and sulked among the curls. 

The afternoon continued into a game of lawn croquet, which as Elinor had said, stretched on much longer than a game so tedious ever should. At least Crowley thought it was tedious, but Aziraphale seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly, which meant Crowley supposed he  _ had _ to call it a success. He glared at Colonel Brandon all the while as he had been showing Aziraphale the way to strike the ball, and instructing him on the order in which to complete the stakes, and then watched in amusement as Aziraphale quickly rose to the lead. 

“And you say to never have played before! What fine luck!” laughed Marianne as she and Willoughby trailed behind, both too distracted by each other to properly play the game.

“A natural hand, that’s all,” Aziraphale insisted, “And besides, you all go so easy as to let a newcomer do well, such gracious company,” 

“Perhaps the Lady will prove a natural hand at other pastimes as well,” teased Sir John, “We shall have to see what other talents we may wheedle out of you!” 

“Oh yes, what accomplishments can we deduce from you, Lady Aziraphale? Pray, stay quiet, and let us guess them!” agreed Mrs Jennings, stepping forward to join her son in law with a laugh, and accidentally kicking Elinor’s ball away from its intended stake.

“Oh, surely not-” Aziraphale tried to deflect, but he was fighting against his own laughter. 

“Perhaps the Lady has a fine hand in needlework, hm? A tapestry or two spun from those fingertips?”

“Surely you must play the pianoforte, for any Lady must surely-”

“Ah, perhaps a dramatic reading!”

“Nay, not merely reading of other’s words, but the construction of sonnets!”

Colonel Brandon stepped forward, towards Aziraphale and, offering his arm, gave him a path out of the teasing from Sir John and Mrs Jennings. The two were appearing red in the cheeks from their joyful laughter, but there was no malice from them, merely two excitable people enjoying an afternoon. 

“Forgive my friends, Lady, it is not often we have the pleasure of new company and as you can see, we are all quite mad tucked away in the hills of Devonshire,” he said gently, leading Aziraphale back towards their table. 

Aziraphale gave a small chuckle, and allowed the Colonel to pour him another cup of iced sweet tea. 

“Believe when I tell you this is not the maddest tea party I have attended, Colonel, and with guests far more agreeable,” 

“I’m glad to hear we are agreeable to you, surely no higher praise could be sung,” 

The Colonel was smiling at Aziraphale, his eyes alighting on hair and shoulder and hands, before returning to the angel’s eyes. Crowley narrowed his eyes a little, watching the way the Colonel gave attention to his angel. 

“If I were to sing praises, Colonel, you would run for the hills, for I am sorry to say my singing is quite the reverse of my croquet - no natural hand for it, I’m afraid!” 

“How could something be so, when sung from so lovely a countenance? I shall not believe it,” 

“Believe what, Colonel?” interrupted a voice, and Mrs Jennings was there again, with Elinor by her side. 

“We were discussing the merits of sung praises, and the Lady here refuses to oblige me with a song,” 

“Do you sing, Lady Aziraphale?” came Elinor's calm voice, as she joined them at the table. Crowley looked towards her, and saw her eyes flicker up to him. He flicked his tongue and gave a small nod, even as Aziraphale began to deny it. Elinor smiled back. 

“It seems your friend believes you can, even as you object,” she said, with a knowing look at Crowley. 

“Oh! Oh, well, you see-” Aziraphale attempted to deny, but found himself at the mercy of expectant faces and an exuberant Mrs Jennings, who insisted that they retire to the parlour at once for a song!

“You are a fiend,” whispered Aziraphale as they made their way into the parlour. Crowley merely wriggled in delight. Aziraphale looked around to where the servants were arranging chairs in front of the pianoforte, and Mrs Jennings directing them as if they had never arranged chairs before. Aziraphale went to the mirror by the large windows and went as if to check the arrangement of his braid, but used the opportunity to make eye contact with Crowley and scowl at him. 

“You little scoundrel, you would see me made ridiculous!” 

Crowley was too busy admiring his angel’s appearance, finally being able to see him in full again, to respond. The tight curls of hair had relaxed and were practically glowing in their pale colour, and Aziraphale’s cheeks were tinged pink with the sun and teasing. The angel moved so gracefully as he checked himself in the mirror, and the dress fitted him in such a way that he looked like a romantic, albeit slightly cross, figure in a painting. 

“You know, I should punish you. How would you like that, you little… oh, you little…” 

The puff came out of Aziraphale’s annoyance as he looked at himself in the mirror and instead of glaring, focused on the soft muslin of his dress and the way the small embroideries of flowers at the neckline caught the light so softly against his skin. 

“This dress is marvellous,” he sighed. 

Crowley hissed in glee, before burying himself a little deeper into the rich  coiffure. He blinked his golden eyes indulgently at Aziraphale, who was watching him with a soft smile and a single eyebrow slightly raised. 

“I can’t stay mad at you very well, can I? Not when you lead me to so many wonderful places. And besides…” Aziraphale trailed off, turning back to the room and seeing the piano now ready for him. 

“Having to hear me sing will surely be punishment enough,” he muttered. 

The audience was assembled, Marianne was seated to accompany Aziraphale, and there was nothing left but for the angel to take his place and sing. Which he did. In at least the most literal sense. Crowley had believed that the angel had merely been being tactfully modest about his singing talents. This belief did not prove itself to be the truth. 

Of course, Aziraphale could - in theory - sing, as all angels can sing, but it seems that singing in tune and with a sense of timing and breathing structure was not among his many talents. Crowley, who admittedly was a fairly competent harmonist, had not expected to spend the following few minutes trying to hide entirely within the angel’s hair so as to muffle the sound of multiple fudged notes and missed cues. He felt as if the music was seeping into his scales and refusing to let him go. He wanted to laugh, to cry and most of all, to hold the angel’s face tenderly in his own two hands... primarily just to request the blessed gift of silently admiring his angel instead. 

Aziraphale, fully aware of his discordant voice and terrible diction, seemed to be enjoying himself far too much. The audience of their peers were watching him with pleasant smiles and vaguely glazed over expressions, completely unaware of the assault that was truly unfolding on their senses. A little bit of miracle and a lot of confidence certainly went a long way when required, and knowing he was annoying his beloved companion to such an extent was of intense pleasure. 

Finally - finally! - the final note of the song was unleashed on all present, and the song was over. Crowley couldn’t bear to look as a silence fell over the room. Surely the humans watching would be aghast? A moment of lull, before a small round of applause followed Aziraphale’s last offkey note. 

“A Lady of many talents you see!” cried Sir John, standing to show his approval of the whole affair. Crowley poked his head out from within Aziraphale’s rather misshapen hair to find the humans smiling and complimenting Aziraphale on his wonderful performance. 

_ And you say  _ **_I’m_ ** _ a fiend…  _ Crowley grumbled internally, moving down to sulk somewhere near Aziraphale’s ear. 

“A fine performance, my Lady Aziraphale!” came a deep voice from the other side of Aziraphale. Colonel Brandon had approached the piano to smile at his angel, before leading him to one side to give Marianne the floor. “You continue to delight and surprise,” 

Crowley glared at the Colonel, who seemed to not notice the fact that the Lady’s hair piece had developed a dislike of him. Instead the human would not stop looking at his angel’s face! Looking all over it, like he was allowed to enjoy Aziraphale’s blue eyes and pink cheeks and effortless smile all for himself. The audacity. 

“If you would be so kind to join us later this evening, you could continue to delight by accepting me for the first dance? I may be without the talents you possess, but I will endeavour to deserve your attention nevertheless,” he said, opening his hand up to Aziraphale in request as he gave a small bow. His eyes returned back to Aziraphale who gave a nervous little giggle and squeezed his hand for only a second before whisking it away again. 

“Colonel, you flatter me! Please allow me to catch my breath before I answer you,”

“But of course. I shall bring you a drink, some sweet tea perhaps?”

Aziraphale nodded quickly and smiled as the Colonel moved away, before turning back to the mirror with a serious expression. 

“Time to go,” he whispered to Crowley, his eyes widening a little. “I may have enough miracles to hide my voice, but there is no power great enough to hide my two left feet!!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> ' _Sense and Sensibility_ ', the 1995 movie adaption of the novel by Jane Austen, with the one and only Alan Rickman playing the Colonel.


	17. The Changing Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley find their way into a fully formed world of magic and delights, and Aziraphale finds himself under the influence of temptation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in the Harry Potter universe, which is something I thought a lot about on. Unfortunately J K Rowling has decided she will not educate herself and apologise for her transphobic and hurtful remarks, so please be aware that the setting of this chapter, and the next, are not in support of her, but merely a tribute to growing up loving the wizarding world. I re-read the first few books over and over, and was always entranced by Diagon Alley and many of the places they visit, and I couldn't do a story visiting my favourite children's books without visiting HP. I hope anyone reading who may be affected by Rowling's continued discrimination will understand my intention is not to dismiss or disregard their validity. Trans right are human rights, and as a member of the LGBT community, I hope these two chapters only bring some happiness. Thank you x

Two days later and Crowley was still sulking. After their speedy departure from Barton Park, Aziraphale had not shut up about how wonderful their visit had been, how lovely and polite the humans had been, and how agreeable in particular Colonel Brandon had been. 

It had started simply enough, with Aziraphale going over and over the various sisters, and then talking about how beautiful the Park was, how much fun croquet had been. The dress he had brought back with him was carefully put away somewhere safe out of the way of where others might find it, and Aziraphale had spent far too long talking about the buttons, and the soft muslin, oh and of course, the  _ lace _ -

Then he had bundled them off to the part of the library where all of the books written by the same author responsible for the Colonel was, and spent the next day and a half reading them outloud to Crowley. First, of course, was  _ Sense and Sensibility _ , followed by  _ Pride and Prejudice _ , and then on throughout  _ Emma, Persuasion _ and - spare him,  _ Mansfield Park _ . It wasn’t that Crowley didn’t enjoy being read to (he did), or that Aziraphale wasn’t a delightful angel to listen to (he was), or even that the books were boring or insipid (they weren’t). It was more that every so often, Aziraphale would break the flow of the story to compare each of the dashing male leads to the Colonel, which not only interrupted Crowley’s rapt attention, but also left him getting himself into quite a twist as he sulked in Aziraphale’s lap. 

Eventually, he resorted to coiling himself back up around Aziraphale’s neck, tucking his head under his tail and huffing his grumpiness directly into the crook of the angel’s neck. It didn’t take Aziraphale too long to notice.

“Are you alright, little thing?” came a soft voice somewhere from above Crowley. A hand rested against his side and squeezed gently. “Are you done with Jane Austen for today?”

Crowley huffed again, and wriggled his head a little further in between the crease of his tail and Aziraphale’s skin. 

“Do you not want to talk to me today, little thing? Is that it?” 

_ No, never that _ , thought Crowley, hissing softly. 

“You’ve been a grumpy little gremlin today. I think I know why,” 

Crowley could hear the smirk in Aziraphale’s voice, the teasing note in his voice and hissed again, giving one last loud huff. Hands wound into his coils and he was gently, but firmly, untangled from his hiding spot. He hissed again, trying to stay in his little hiding spot, but Aziraphale wouldn’t let him. 

“Oh, who’s a jealous little snake?” came the angel’s smug voice, as Crowley found his face cradled between two broad hands. He refused to make eye contact, trying to twist his nose away.

_ Not jealous!  _

“Oh, aren’t you just so appealing when you’re in a little stormcloud, my little grump?” Aziraphale continued with the soft baby voice, and his hands didn’t let Crowley wriggle away. Instead the snake was subjected to a lot of kisses being given all over his snout, head and neck as Aziraphale continued to tease him. 

“Oh, my moody little one, oh what a sweet little fiend you are!”

Crowley fought to keep his sullen expression, but found himself enjoying the attention far too much. The kisses continued, until Crowley simply gave up trying to squirm away, and let Aziraphale gather him all up in his arms and kiss his nose over and over again. 

“Oh, what a jealous little delight you are,” Aziraphale told him when Crowley finally conceded the playfight. “Fancy you, being so clever and wonderful, being jealous of a fictional human like the Colonel,” 

Crowley narrowed his eyes at the mention of the Colonel, but Aziraphale’s smirk and twinkling eyes confirmed that Aziraphale had been right about Crowley’s sullen mood. 

“Come on now, little thing, let’s see if we can find something to brighten your mood,” Aziraphale smirked, tactfully changing the subject. “I don’t know about you, but I’m in the mood for something sweet!”

\---

The library wasted no time in getting them to where they wanted to go. Only a few turns of the bookcases to the left, and something appeared. This time it wasn’t a door, but a floor length curtain pulled across a bar. Aziraphale made an excited noise, obviously delighted that another adventure was underway - what exciting sights would the Library give them this time? Pulling back the curtain came with only a small noise of disappointment. A tiny room with a large mirror and a few haphazard robes hung up to one side. 

“Well that’s… nice,” Aziraphale offered, trying very hard to hide the disappointment in his voice. Crowley smirked and nudged Aziraphale’s cheek to go inside. It turned out to be a bit of a squeeze, with Aziraphale struggling to fit his wings in without knocking the robes to the ground, or getting in the way of pulling the curtain behind him. 

“Maybe I should just…?” Aziraphale made a face to Crowley in the mirror, before closing his eyes and folding his wings away to the different plane. With a sigh, he wriggled his shoulders and righted the curtain, before stooping to gather the disrupted robes. 

“It seems the humans aren’t going to be any good at anticipating the needs of those with additional requirements,” he grumbled, lifting one hand to hold Crowley steady as he threatened to slip away from his shoulders. A noise came from somewhere behind them. 

Straightening, Aziraphale looked back towards the curtain and listened: a buzz of sound came from just behind the curtain, like overlapping voices and the shuffle of cloth and paper. Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who just shrugged. Creeping forward, Aziraphale twitched the edge of the curtain to one side and they both peered out. 

The Library had gone, and instead they found themselves looking out into a shop full of racks of robes, in every colour and style one could dream of. The shop was full of people, all talking and carrying things, and dressed in the same style of colourful long robes. Some wore elaborate hats or scarves, others carried large handbags shaped like teapots or cauldrons. One lady nearby wore dark green robes with a fox fur stole which had seen better days, and her lopsided hat had a rather bedraggled stuffed vulture on it. She appeared to be chastising a young boy who morosely looked down at the floorboards in front of him, whilst struggling to hold several sets of new robes. 

“Now, Neville, now we have your robes all picked out, I need you to go to go pay for them and make sure they fold them up properly this time, none of that nonsense from last year!” she was telling him, all whilst rummaging through her bright red handbag for something. 

“Yes Gran,” 

“And once you’ve done that, you need to go to Blotts and pick up your reading list, and then to the pet shop. That blasted toad needs ointment, and it’s your job to take care of it, you know that!”

“Yes Gran,” 

“Where is that list, I know I have it - ah, here we go!” 

She pulled out a list and checked it. 

“Oh darn, I have to be at this appointment at Gringotts in ten minutes - here!” She quickly thrust the list into poor Neville’s hand and then a small bag of coins. Neville struggled to juggle everything in his arms, looking at her over the top of the piled clothing. 

“But Gran-”

“I will see you in an hour at the Leaky Cauldron, make sure you have everything on the list - and don’t be late!” she warned, before turning on her heel and leaving the boy on his own. He watched her go, before sighing heavily and, taking care not to bump anything with his outstretched arms full of robes, turned to make his way towards the shop assistant already eyeing up his purchases. 

Aziraphale made a noise of sympathy. 

“Poor mite. She seems very domineering, doesn’t she?” 

Crowley agreed, but he had to admit he was rather thrilled with her marvellous hat. Aziraphale was eyeing up the robes left in the small changing room they were in, picking through the dark red and bottle green options. 

“None of these are really my colour,” he muttered, looking down at his angelic pale cream robes. “Do you think anyone will notice?”

Crowley gave a shrug. None of the other people in their adventures had seemed to notice or mind, even with Aziraphale’s wings getting in the way, so it hardly seemed to matter. What Crowley suspected, with a smirk, is that Aziraphale just enjoyed the dressing up part of their adventures. 

Stepping out into the main body of the shop, Aziraphale glanced around at all of the displays of robes, his eyes moving restlessly to see if anything caught his attention. The racks were full of jewel tones, from deep scarlet to luxurious violet, with dashes of gold stitch work and embroidery. There were a great number of black robes as well, some highly tailored with tall collars and velvet brocade, and others much more plain and shapeless. Aziraphale made his way carefully through the displays, his hands reaching out to caress a lining of fur in a travelling cape, to trace the pattern of symbols sewn into a sleeve. Crowley wasn’t sure if Aziraphale was actually looking for something, or whether he was just enjoying the variety, but then they came across the display of mannequins in the shop window. They were arranged in a cascade, all of them dressed in the softest pastel colours they had seen so far. 

_ Spring’s New Trend: Pastel Perfection!  _ Shouted a wooden sign above them, before the ink on the sign flowed out of place and reformed into another set:  _ Stand out from the crowd in Periwinkle! Lilac! Lemon Meringue! Mint! Orange Sherbet! Rosewater!  _

Aziraphale’s hands came together in a small gasp of pleasure, moving towards the soft colours like a moth dancing up to a light. He made a few excited noises at some pale orange robes, the long sleeves embroidered with mushrooms with spotted cap heads. He reached out to trace the anglaise embroidery of the Lemon Meringue set, with its shirred puff sleeves and large useful pockets. He mostly ignored the Mint green, a shimmering set of overlapping gossamer fabrics spooling to the floor, but then he found it. 

Crowley could feel the intake of breath Aziraphale did through his scales, the angel’s chest expanding as he stood in front of the last mannequin and  _ yearned _ . 

“Oh, little thing, look at this one!”

It was a delicate pink colour robe in a regency style, with a cerise velvet spencer jacket which buttoned across the chest from the chin down to just under the bust, before the velvet flared out and down in a floor length tail skirt. The rest of the skirt was soft and drapey, in the most delicate dawn pink Crowley had ever seen. The embroidery on the velvet shoulders and down the arms was of trailing vines and leaves, with tucked strawberries that gleamed bright cherry red, and dozens of delicate little daisies picked out with pearl beading. 

Aziraphale ran his hands down the sleeve reverently, unconsciously raising his chin as he imagined himself buttoning up the waistcoat around his throat. 

Crowley gave him a nudge. 

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” Aziraphale said straight away, as he broke out of his pink tinted thoughts. “It’s far too…”

But the adjective never arrived, leaving Aziraphale once again speechlessly admiring the robe. 

“Care to try it on, sir?” came a voice just to the left of them, and they both looked to find a smiling shop assistant holding out a hangered version of the small robe they had been staring at for the best part of ten minutes. “I hope you don’t mind, but I believe this size would suit you,” 

Aziraphale beamed, taking the robe carefully and holding it so as to not let the layers trail on the floor. He thanked her in a daze and glided back over to the changing room, Aziraphale almost unable to pull his gaze away from the twinkling embroidery. 

Once inside the changing room, Crowley was unwound and placed across the hooks at eye level. Aziraphale undressed quickly and without really looking, pulling his robes off and leaving them in a heap on the floor. He unbuttoned the waistcoat robe so carefully, before pulling the sleeves free and bringing the silk underlayer out. He dressed slowly, with the same care and steady hand that Crowley had watched him use on his beloved books. The pink suited him so perfectly, bringing out the blue of his eyes. Soon the waistcoat was next, and the shop assistant had picked well - the robe fitted Aziraphale like a glove, the tailored shoulders and slope of his back perfectly lined with the cinched waistcoat, the sleeve finished at the perfect length of his arm. The buttons traced all the way up to Aziraphale’s throat and suited him  _ marvellously _ . 

“Oh little thing,” breathed Aziraphale as he stared at himself in the mirror, his hands tracing every line and detail in quiet awe. “Oh, how  _ beautiful _ ,” 

Crowley was lost for words, all he could do was agree. Something about the way the clothing tucked him up and in, offering only glimpses of the skin underneath - it left Crowley speechless. His angel was  _ radiant _ . 

“How are you getting on?” came the voice of the shop assistant. 

“Oh! Very well, thank you,” called back Aziraphale, attempting to tear his eyes away from the reflection.    
“Would you care to view the matching hats?”   
Crowley didn’t think Aziraphale had ever looked more excited, the way his eyes lit up and his hands immediately reached for him. The curtain was pulled back quickly and Aziraphale found himself looking at the smiling shop assistant. 

“Did you say  _ matching _ hats?”

\---

“Oh my, what an unusual shape!” commented Aziraphale, as he surveyed the hats. They came in all sorts of colours and sizes, but the distinctive pointed top was present in almost all of them. Some curved to the back, or curled right round to create a little spiral, others were pinprick straight. He was still staring at them when the shop assistant appeared next to him again, holding two hats. One was woven raffia witch’s hat with a wide pink ribbon, and the other was the same velvet of his overcoat, with a gradient of white to pink on the underside to suggest a cut strawberry, and little golden seeds peppered up the tall point.

“These are the two for this robe, one for casual and one for formal. Would you care to try one on?” 

Aziraphale considered the raffia, but struggled to keep his eyes away from the charming velvet hat. Crowley smirked to himself, thinking how the angel seemed to be drawn to the formal fussiness of the whole affair. He reached for the velvet hat and positioned it on his head, turning towards the mirror and taking in the whole effect. 

“Oh!” he said softly, as the sweeping skirts moved with him, as the colour made his eyes shimmer and the golden seeds of his hat glimmered in the shop’s light. He was speechless, savouring the moment as both he and Crowley stared at the pink perfection. 

“Oh little thing, what do you think?”

Crowley hissed softly, giving a nod of his head and moving to swipe his snout across Aziraphale’s cheekbone with affection.    
“It’s a pity that scarlet and rose don’t match, you two make quite the pair,” commented the shop assistant quietly, moving to smooth down the robe behind Aziraphale, looking in the mirror to adjust the drape. 

“Oh, I see what you mean,” Aziraphale said quietly, his eyes now focussing on the red coils around his neck. “Come here little thing,” 

Crowley obediently slipped into Aziraphale’s hands and watched in bemusement as the angel lifted him up and landed a loud kiss directly onto Crowley’s sensitive underbelly, forcing a giggling hiss from the serpent. 

He wriggled as Aziraphale kissed his stomach again, trying to squirm away but having no where to go.    
“There we are, my ticklish beauty,” Aziraphale grinned, bringing Crowley back in and giving him another kiss on the head, “Look how pretty you look!”

Looking down, Crowley found that his sleek scarlet scales had been transformed into a deep and delicious magenta pink, glittering with iridescendence as the light played off his scales. He looked up at their reflection and met Aziraphale’s eyes with a tilted head, fixing him with a look of incredulity. 

“Now we match!” Aziraphale told him giddily, unable to hide the glee coming off him. Crowley rolled his eyes as dramatically as he could, and allowed himself to be coiled once again around his angel’s shoulder, across his back and hooked into the crook of his elbow like the world's most elegant and wilful boa.

“Don’t mind him, he likes all the attention really,” Aziraphale told the shop assistant. “Now, tell me, how much do we owe you?” 

\---  
  


A few minutes and a pocketful of miracled gold later, and Aziraphale and Crowley were finished in  Madam Malkin's Robes, and ready to exit to explore elsewhere. Aziraphale pushed open the door and paused, both of them first looking right and then left. The street they had emerged onto was bustling with energy, and thronging with dozens of people in colourful robes going every which way. The cobbled street was narrow, and lined with shop after shop with brightly lit shop displays and hanging signs declaring their wares. There were so many sights and sounds and smells that pulled in every direction that neither Aizraphale or Crowley had any idea where to start. 

“Oh my!” muttered Aziraphale, watching as a very tall and very broad hairy man strode past them in a gigantic brown overcoat, followed quickly by a young boy with taped up spectacles. The figure carved quite an efficient path through the crowd, which was quickly filled up with other witches and wizards intent on their business. 

“I wonder where we should start…” muttered Aziraphale, looking down to arrange his hemline carefully. “Oh, what’s this?” 

He bent down, forcing Crowley to hold on for dear life as he had been distracted engaging a snowy owl on a lamppost nearby in a staring contest. Aziraphale reached for a small piece of paper, picking it up and smoothing it flat to read it aloud to Crowley. 

“ _ Robes at Malkin's x3 (no dress robes!), Eyelop’s for toad ointment - Don’t forget!!! Gringotts appointment _ \- oh! Oh no!”

Aziraphale breathed in sharply. He quickly looked either way up or down the street but couldn’t seem to pick anyone out from the busy crowd. 

“This is that young lad’s list from his grandmother, do you remember? What was his name?” Aziraphale gave a small noise of frustration, turning again and going onto his tiptoes to try and catch a glimpse of the little boy. “It began with N, I believe - Newton? Norman? Oh goodness, he’s dropped his list and she was so severe with him,”

Crowley shrugged, having lost his contest with the owl, and was now busy coiling up onto Aziraphale’s new hat to peer with interest down the street towards a series of intriguing smells. He slipped as Aziraphale moved suddenly. 

“We must see if we can find him, little thing, come along!”

_ Come along? What else am I meant to do?  _ Thought Crowley as he gripped on for dear life.  _ I’m attached to you, you ninny!! _


	18. The Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale explore Diagon Alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for a long absence in posting. A tendon injury I sustained has been hard to recover from, and I had to take a break to let it heal. I've been doing small bouts of typing here and there. Thank you to anyone still following along, I haven't abandoned this fic!

They first tried Eyelop’s Owl Emporium, easily finding it by Aziraphale following the sound of hooting and squawking, and Crowley finding it by smell. It was fairly crowded, with the narrow spaces between the cages and stands full of young witches and wizards all jostling each other and exclaiming loudly about the animals on display. There was an entire wall of cats, some long and lean and others covered in fluff, all with flashing eyes and loud meows for attention. Between the cats and the opposite wall of rats, ferrets and mice, there were several large tall tanks of various frogs and toads, with only the few brightly coloured ones separate with a large sign explaining how deeply poisonous they were. Above the cages and tanks were docs of perches and tall arched stands for the most popular wizarding animals - the owls. 

“Oh, little thing, look how beautiful!” gasped Aziraphale, looking up at the group of snowy owls all shuffling on their perch. To one side of the snowies, an enormous black and grey  Blakiston's fish owl sat with its head rotated almost around to stare unblinking at a large tank with a single horned adder sunning itself on a rock under a heat lamp. Further up and back, Crowley could see pygmy owls squished together along a perch, their feet obscured by their tiny fluffy feathered puffball bodies. Watching the pygmies, almost completely camouflaged into the shadows cast by the restless owls above it, sat a black-banded owl with bright yellow eyes. 

“Aren’t they marvellous?” whispered Aziraphale, reaching up to offer a finger to one of the nearby long-eared owls. The owl observed the finger dispassionately, before giving it a polite nibble and offering its head for a scritch. 

Aziraphale dragged his gaze away from the many animal occupants and started picking his way through the crowd, looking over the heads of many smaller children to try and spot the nervous boy they had seen in the robe boutique. 

Crowley noted that while Aziraphale had seemed very keen on meeting Dorothy in the forest, the reality of being confronted with a whole host of noisy, excitable children didn’t seem to enthral the angel one bit. 

“Mummy! Mum look! Mummy!” one small girl cried, tugging repeatedly at her mother’s sleeve whilst trying to pull her over to the pen of kittens, while her mother went the other direction with another small child in hand. Aziraphale moved away as the little girl suddenly changed tactics, running back and nearly on the hem of his new outfit, to circle in front of her mother and loudly beg for her to go look. 

“Goodness,” muttered Aziraphale, moving away from the ear splitting tirade of begging. He side stepped two giggling teenagers talking to the cats with their fingers stuck through to pet them, and peered towards another young child, who might have been the right one, except when she turned around she was a young girl with hair she had obviously attempted to cut at home, given the wonky fringe and mournful awareness of being in public. Aziraphale made a sympathetic noise, and scanned the back of the shop for any more potentials. Finding only a handful of browsing adults and one exhausted looking shop assistant with dung on the sleeve of their robe, he turned towards the exit, only to be confronted with a boy with red hair and an incredulous expression staring up at him. 

“Oh!” he said, stopping short as he noticed the boy. “Can I help you?”

“Is that your snake?” he asked, staring at Crowley who returned the stare with a flick of his tongue. Aziraphale’s hand came up to rest on his scales lightly. 

“Not exactly. You see, he is his own snake, I couldn’t possibly own him. I’m very lucky to have him as my dearest companion,”

The boy tilted his head a bit, and his expression grew more screwed up in thought.

“But what do you do with him?” 

“We go on all sorts of adventures together, only I think he’s better at finding them than I am,”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” 

Aziraphale smiled. “It doesn’t have to, it’s not always about making sense to others, merely existing as we are is enough,” 

The boy’s face mirrored the complex knot of thoughts currently being untangled in his head, his eyes flicking between Aziraphale’s pleasant smile and Crowley’s narrowed gaze. Suddenly he cleared them all away and went instead to pull out an animal from the inside of his jumper. 

“Fair enough. This is Scabbers, and he’s pretty useless, but I guess we do sorta own him. He’s been with the family for years, just kinda hanging about,” 

He held up a rather shabby looking rat, who definitely looked like the kind of animal that only did a lot of hanging around being useless. Firstly, it was an unusual mix of brown and grey, and secondly it was fast asleep. 

“Ah, how… lovely. Do you go on any adventures together?”

The boy shrugged, and tipped the rat back inside his jumper. 

“Nah, not really. He mostly just sleeps all day,”

Aziraphale nodded as if he understood, and returned the shrug, before changing the subject. 

“Have you seen another little boy with a poorly toad in here today?” 

The boy thought for a second. 

“Yeah, I think so, but he was in a rush, said something about his Gran being mad? He was only here a little while ago.”

Aziraphale made a small gasp of discovery.

“Well, anyway, it was lovely meeting you and your little rat friend. We must be on our way!” 

Aziraphale turned, and made his escape in between the groups of shopping wizards, minding to move his skirts as he did so. He glanced back as they stepped out onto the street. 

“There was something very peculiar about that rat, didn’t you think so, little thing?” he muttered, shaking his head. “Something… off,” 

Crowley shrugged as Aziraphale reached for the paper again and unfolded it, looking for their next target. 

Their next stop was a small one, but there was a kind of electricity surrounding the building - some kind of power which Crowley could feel moving through his scales. The worn green paint and darkened windows were unassuming, but the sign over the door confirmed their destination: Ollivanders Wand Shop. 

“Ah, here we are, my little thing,” murmured Aziraphale, folding up the list and slipping back into his pocket. He pushed the door open and they stepped into the semi-darkness, the door shutting silently behind them to seal them inside the small shop. The first thing Crowley noticed was the quiet, but was immediately focussed on the shadows in the corners of the room. 

“Oh, goodness!” whispered Aziraphale, “What do you think they sell here?” 

Crowley hissed back softly, moving to curl around Aziraphale’s throat closely, moving his head to try and narrow in on the small movement he could. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the source, but he protectively drew close to his angel. A flicker of movement in the corner of his left eye and -

A flash of golden light startled them both, followed immediately by a small puff of emerald green sparks, and a left over fizzle of gold formed the shape of a flower which hovered in front of them.

“Oh!” gasped Aziraphale, and Crowley found he had instinctively coiled himself across Aziraphale’s face, leaving only one eye able to peer through between his pink coils. Aziraphale spluttered a little, tugging gently at Crowley as an older man stepped forward in a set of weathered robes. His face was as weathered as his robes, but he was smiling at them as he stepped into the warm glow from the flower created from the tip of his wand. 

“Good day to you, madam. I hope I didn’t startle you,” 

Aziraphale continued to splutter, tugging Crowley away from his defensive curl around his head, and repositioned him back around his shoulders. Crowley, feeling distinctly uncooperative, never broke his gaze from the wizard, hissing softly as he watched another man look admiringly at his -  _ his! _ \- angel. 

“It’s not me you startled, my little thing seems a little jumpy,” grumbled Aziraphale, smoothing Crowley out across his shoulder and then using his hands to correct his hair and the angle of his hat. 

“Allow me to apologize,” continued the man, most likely the aforementioned Ollivander, reaching forward to pluck the flower from the tip of his wand and hand it to Aziraphale. “For you, please,”

“Oh how lovely!” said the angel, reaching out to carefully take hold of the shimmering bloom. “What a marvellous creation, one of your own design?” 

Ollivander smiled widely, his eyes creasing up. “Of course!”

“May I try?” 

Aziraphale didn’t pause, merely held up his free hand and flicked his fingers in a graceful wave. Light flickered from inside his palm and flowed up in small tendrils towards the tips of his fingers. The tendrils merged, before expanding and exploding out to form a glittering dandelion seed head, which bobbed gently as Aziraphale held it. 

“Oh my!” whispered the old man, his smile gone but his eyes lit up as he watched Aziraphale. “You must be quite the spell caster, to do such seamless magic without a wand! Why, I’ve not met any wizard or witch with such precision!”

_ You’ve never met anyone like Aziraphale… trust me _ , grumbled Crowley. 

Aziraphale made a noncommittal noise, before bringing the seed head up to his lips and blowing on it softly. The seeds dispersed, giving one last little glimmer of light before fading away. 

“Please, join me at the table, I would be very interested to hear of your studies! As you can imagine, a wand maker rarely meets a master of wandless magic such as yourself,” 

“Oh, um, thank you, but I, er-”

Slightly too late, Aziraphale realised his error, and blushed almost as pink as his delicious robes, something Crowley found far too enjoyable. 

“Tell me, did you study at Hogwarts?” 

“I’m sorry, Hogwarts? Why would hogs have-”

“Oh, forgive me, maybe Durmstrang? With such light hair and clear eyes, I should have known you for a Scandinavian,” 

Crowley hissed lightly. He had been enjoying seeing Aziraphale on the back foot, and a little flustered as he tried to navigate the unusual twists thrown at him by their latest adventure; now he was reminded how unpleasant he found the attentions of these boring human males when they were directed at his angel. At least Aziraphale didn’t seem nearly as pleased as he had when it had been that ridiculous Colonel character. 

“I’m so sorry, I’m actually not up to speed with… any of that. I’m simply a visitor to your lovely town,”

Ollivander made a noise of surprise and admiration, his expressive eyes still focused on Aziraphale. He motioned an apology with his hands, dipping his head a little. 

“I am trespassing on your privacy, I do apologise. My terrible curiosity has led me to some wondrous discoveries, but these discoveries must be willingly made.”

Aziraphale smiled graciously, and his eyes twinkled just a little as he met Crowley’s eyes. He leaned forward a little conspicuously, unable to hide the giddiness. 

“I can’t blame your curiosity for that, my companion here and I know all about wondrous discoveries,” he told Ollivander in a low voice. He raised his hand again and rotated his wrist in a swift motion, a small flicker of miracle light emerging from the tips of his fingers and weaving tendrils up and along his arm. Crowley watched, with a metaphorical eyebrow raised, as Aziraphale directed the miracle up his sleeve, tracing the lines of embroidered vines and curling leaves. As the tendrils moved upwards and light traced each leaf, a magical copy would suddenly peel away in a shimmer of golden light, as if the embroidery was sprouting from him. The strawberries glittered like rubies, suddenly looking juicy and tantalizing as the tendrils continued to move and sketch out the garden on Aziraphale’s robes. Crowley watched as the miracle reached one of his coils, and danced across his scales like a puff of cool air, searching for more beadwork to show off with. As Ollivander and Crowley watched, Aziraphale lifted his arm and blew on the display, and suddenly triggered small bursts of light as the daisies bloomed one after another. 

“My goodness,” whispered Ollivander, watching closely as the small creation lit up the awed expression of his face. “Extraordinary!” 

Crowley looked away from the frivolous miracle and fixed a look at Aziraphale, tilting his head ever so slightly. Aziraphale glanced at him, a slight look of guilt creeping onto the perimeter of his expression as his eyes flickered between Crowley and the glowing garden on his arm. He cleared his throat, looking suitably sheepish, and swept his arm in a dismissive motion, brushing the light away into the air like dust. Ollivander blinked slowly, his eyes refocusing slowly, as if returning from a dream. 

“I’m afraid I am on swift business today,” explained Aziraphale, using his hands to smooth down the front of his spencer jacket, adopting the tone of someone with a great deal more to do than he had. 

“I’m looking for a boy - a small one, with a sick toad and carrying several large parcels - have you seen him?”

“Ah, yes, I believe I know of whom you speak - the Longbottom boy?”

Aziraphale, who had gone from questioning, to excited, and then swiftly to confused, only looked back at him in bafflement. 

“The  _ what _ boy?” 

“Frank Longbottom’s son, Nicholas or Newt or something, no good with names,” shrugged the wandmaker, “But that wand I would never forget! He brought it in to see if I could do anything for him, you see, he inherited it from his father after the terrible tragedy, and there’s only so much you can do for a wandbearer with the wrong wand,” 

He turned away from them, and started rooting around in the space under a table stacked with long thin boxes, pulling out parcels tied with string, a few rolls of parchment, and eventually a heavy and rather dusty book. The pages were yellowing with age, and the leather binding the cover was peeling away from the top corner. Crowley felt, rather than heard, Aziraphale make a pitiful noise as Ollivander dropped the book down on the nearest free surface and opened it without a second thought for the poor cracked spine. 

“Let me see, let me see…” muttered the wandmaker, trailing a finger down the columns of miniscule spidery writing. “Ah, yes, here we go - a Master Neville Longbottom, second hand bearer of Frank Longbottom’s wand. 13 inches, cherry wood, with a core of-” 

“I’m sorry, do forgive me, but I must return something to him at once - where did he go after you saw him here?” Aziraphale interrupted. 

Ollivander stopped and thought about it for a moment, before clarity came to him. 

“I believe he mentioned something about a magic textbook, one he needs to buy for his first year at school. Although how the poor boy could carry anymore with those puny arms is a mystery,” 

“A magic textbook, so he must need to visit a bookstore? Is there one on this street?” 

Ollivander smiled at Aziraphale with the kind of bemused familiarity which Crowley found intolerable. 

“Why, of course! Flourish and Blotts is only down the Alley, towards the Leaky Cauldron. Best bookshop this side of England, you could read for two hundred days and nights and only scratch the surface of the knowledge they carry,” 

Crowley would have groaned heavily had it been particularly snake-like, but instead he limited himself to a mighty rolling of the eyes, already feeling the sudden tremble of excitement that passed through the Keeper. 

“Two hundred days and nights! How wonderful!” said the angel, using one hand to make sure Crowley was secure in place, and the other to gather up the hem of his robe. “You have been of great help, dear sir, thank you kindly!” he said quickly, turning away to rush for the door. He flung open the door, stopped a moment, and turned back.

“Which way towards the Leaky Cauldron?!”

\---

Flourish and Blotts was everything Ollivander had promised and more, much to Crowley’s dismay. They had left one everlasting maze of books for another endless warren of books, but unfortunately this one was much more cramped, messier, and absolutely full of  _ people _ . 

Riding up safe on Aziraphale’s shoulders, Crowley didn’t know a bookstore could be as chaotic as Flourish and Blotts seemed to be, and he instinctively coiled tighter around Aziraphale’s neck like a scarf. A hand came up to pet at him absentmindedly.   
  
“Oh little thing,” whispered Aziraphale, “Isn’t it marvellous?”

Of course, he was right, agreed Crowley begrudgingly. The shop was very impressive, mainly due to how many books it managed to cram into such a small and cramped space. The bookshelves went up the walls to the ceiling, with shelves stuck at unusual angles to accommodate as much shelving space as possible, with little regard to any logical organisation for the browsing wizards and witches (something Crowley mightily approved of). There were little staircases with piles of books restricting each step, and ladders on wheels to allow for vertical browsing, and even - occasionally - a frazzled sales assistant with too many books in their arms trying to squeeze past oblivious customers. 

Aziraphale didn’t seem to have the same reservations that Crowley did, judging by the bright side on his face and the wide eyes which travelled restlessly from shelf to shelf. He floated rather than walked, moving as in a daze as his fingers reached out to trace the spines of the books. 

_ A History of Transfiguration (now with pictures!) _

_ Living the Charmed Life - Charms for the Perfect House Spouse!  _

_ Why Alchemy is Stupid, and I Can Prove It  _

“What a wealth of knowledge!” breathed Aziraphale, who managed to bump a hip on an overflowing display table, walk directly in between the argument of two bickering teenagers, and fail to notice the same frazzled employee from earlier attempting to slip past him for several frustrating moments, all within the span of their first few minutes in the shop. Eventually he drifted to a stop in front of the most untouched and orderly shelf in the shop, somewhere near the back. It was a little darker here, the lamp having spluttered to death some time ago, and seemed to be hoarding the dust from the reminder of the shop. Crowley squinted to pick out the lettering on the book closest to him. 

_ A Complete History of Magic: Volume 58 _

Horror descended on Crowley, and he gave a sigh that deflated him limp across Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

_ Oh no… _

But it was too late. The angel had already mounted the footstool, reached high for the very first book on the top shelf, and was returning to the earth while blowing the dust carefully away. Aziraphale glanced behind him, noting the dozens of unopened boxes of additional copies of the history books, and made a noise. Crowley watched as the box closest to them in the pile suddenly began to look a little less rigid, and started to appear rather  _ lumpy _ .

_ Oh, we really are being a little indulgent today, aren’t we?  _ Thought Crowley with amusement, mentally tracking back through all of the minor miracles which had been spent so far. Aziraphale, unperturbed, gave the box - now suddenly as soft as a cushion, with several more surrounding it appeared more like a tall back and two armrests, a faint little smirk, and prompted positioned his plump behind in the centre with a satisfied little sigh. He looked down at the book on his lap, frowned when he realised that the shadows made it a little difficult to even see the front cover, and looked up to fix the lampshade precariously balanced on the boxes next to him a criticising look. It gave a hum of apology, and flickered back to life, the warm glow spilling across Aziraphale’s lap. With this, Aziraphale gave another satisfied little smirk, all rather pleased with himself, and carefully eased one the untouched spine of the book. 

Crowley watched all of this from the box level with the angel’s shoulder with a mixture of incredulous disbelief and unrelenting fondness for his fussy, frivolous little angel. What a difference only a short amount of time and a sprinkle of temptation could do. Before his angel had been crouched on the floor, his wings getting completely out of shape and full of dust, his neck craned down to read in the silent, empty library and now! Now Aziraphale sat perfectly perched on a miracled armchair of boxes in a warm little corner of this busy, fictional bookshop. His back was straight, his ankles crossed in his sensible pink velvet shoes, his shoulders perfectly poised in the most beautiful pink robes to ever grace an angel’s skin. His hair was still messy, of course, but the hat suited him so well, and more than that - the deep glow of happiness which flowed from the angel’s bright eyes, his content smile, his delicate fingers as they traced the pages was undeniable. 

Crowley gave another heavy sigh, but this time it was one of deep affection. 

Aziraphale looked up from his book, and positively beamed at Crowley with the full force of that glowing happiness. 

“Oh, little thing. I’m just so…” he sighed, shaking his head a little. He was speechless. He leaned in and gave a small flick of his chin to coax Crowley forward. Crowley moved without conscious thought, offering up his head for Aziraphale’s kisses. He bumped his snout along the angel’s cheekbone, moving back to flick his tongue at his nose before being given another big kiss on the side of his long neck. Aziraphale smiled at him, his nose pressing against Crowley’s. 

“My perfect little thing,” Aziraphale told him, giving him another kiss on the nose. His eyes were crinkled, the blue of his eyes shimmering lightly. He pulled back a little, glancing back down at his book. 

“I promise not to be too long, but do you mind?” he asked, his eyebrows flicking up in a small pout. Crowley could have smirked, but shook his head and flicked his nose towards the rest of the shop. Aziraphale nodded, smiling widely. 

“Yes of course, go explore - but do come get me if you find anything! Promise?” 

Crowley inclined his head, received one more kiss on his nose, and slithered down from the box onto the floor. It was a tricky in and of itself to avoid being stepped on, so he slunk up into a bookcase and opted for his old stalking method of trailing along the books at head height, watching the characters of this world go this way and that, consulting lists, pulling out copies of books, debating the benefits of 1st edition over 2nd edition. 

There were people he had already seen before, or thought he had. The red headed boy from the pet store seemed to belong to a gaggle of other red headed children, all rotating around a central authoritative woman who was somehow seamlessly managing 4 different lists of books, as well as a petulant small girl sulking behind her skirts. Somewhere near the entrance, the gigantic man from the Alley was stooping and pointing towards various bookshelves, and was clearly very aware of the disruption he was causing as he got his small bespectacled companion to do the majority of the fetching in his stead. 

“Mum, it’s ok, we don’t have to get most of those books, I already have them all, remember?” said a small girl with extraordinarily frizzy hair who was just in front of the books Crowley was skulking inside of. She was speaking to her mother and father, who were hovering nervously near her with a shopping list as she skimmed through the books just beneath Crowley. 

“Are you sure? I don’t remember us getting the… um… ‘ _ Fantastic Beasts _ ’ one, is that the one with the teeth?” she asked, looking a little off put, and glancing nervously at a nearby crate full of quivering hairy books, which Crowley was sure could be heard growling. 

“No, mum, that’s the _Monster Books of Monsters_ , that’s a third year book,”

“Ok, Hermione dear, but what are we getting then? I thought you had read all your new books for school already, you clever clogs,” asked her father, sounding really rather proud of the small girl. 

Hermione had found what she was looking for and slid the book free before turning back to her parents. 

“Well I finished  _ The History of Magic _ , and it was so interesting, I was sure there had to be more to learn. Look!” 

She thrust a volume up towards them, with a soft brown cover bearing a golden coat of arms on the front. 

“ _ ‘Hogwarts: A History’ _ ? Sounds promising,” agreed her father, looking at his wife with only a hint of confusion. His wife returned a commiserating smile back. Hermione didn’t seem to notice as they led her towards the tills, she was already too absorbed in the author’s introduction on the first page. 

Crowley smirked to himself, witnessing another bookworm like his angel, before continuing down the side of the shop. He paused now and again to read the spines of the books he was resting on top of, or stopped to watch a wizard enchant his books to float weightlessly along behind him in lieu of carrying them. At one point there seemed to be a small scuffle between two children both wanting the same book, which was quickly resolved by a witch who stuck both of them on the ceiling and left them there. 

As he slithered, he spotted a rather dusty looking plant tucked away in one of the corners of the shop, and aiming for it he found himself in a much quieter section than the ones. It was warmer, and almost a little humid, and there were quite a few plants tucked away and somehow thriving despite the absence of a window or any light source. Checking the book beneath him, he found himself in the Herbology and Herbal Husbandry section which was simply overflowing with books. Books of magical mushrooms and roots, magical properties of flowers, books on the safe rearing of carnivorous plants, books on moon rearing versus sun rearing of exotic species, books on identification and ingratiation with hostile plants - seemingly books on every element of the magical world of plants. 

In the very centre of this hidden away nook sat a small boy, sitting cross legged on the floor with his chin in his hand and a book in his lap.Behind him sat several forgotten parcels of robes, ointment and tonics. Crowley watched the boy closely for a minute, noting the contentment as he silently poured over every page of the germination of something called the Devil’s Snare. He was certain this was the Longbottom boy, even if he couldn’t see his worried face. He did a rather ungainly u-turn, glad no one seemed to witness him, and slithered his return towards the angel. As he drew closer he noticed a few witches gossiping behind their hands and pointing, and a wizard peering around the corner from the Defensive section over his glasses towards Aziraphale. 

It didn’t take Crowley long to see why. The angel was so immersed in his reading that he had subconsciously managed to create quite a scene. Several of the books on the top shelf had slipped free of their own accord and were hovering expectantly around Aziraphale, gently flapping their covers like wings as they waited for him to reach for the next one. A few others had grown jealous of the history tomes and had joined the flock, moving as close to the angel as they dared. Aziraphale, for his part, was completely oblivious to the spectacle he had created. Crowley did his best to ignore the onlookers and made his way over to the angel, shimmying his way up the long skirt of the robes until he was in Aziraphale’s lap. It took him clambering onto the pages of the book to actually pull focus from the angel, who blinked in surprise to find him there and smiled. 

“Oh hello,” 

Crowley hissed lightly and motioned his nose towards the flock of books. Aziraphale followed his gaze and made a small noise of surprise, followed by a chuckle. 

“Oh how lovely!” he said, beaming at the books who were rustling their pages in happiness of being acknowledged. He patted the box directly next to him, and watched in amusement as the books wrestled to get there first, each landing one on top of the other to create a small stack of excited literature. Crowley thought he could practically hear them  _ purring _ .

“Aren’t they wonderful? This is a really smashing place,” beamed Aziraphale. Crowley inclined his head, and then flicked his nose towards the section he had just returned from. Aziraphale’s expression rearranged into confusion. Crowley tried again, using his tail to poke at the pocket where the list was hidden away, all while inclining his head back over to the corner. 

Finally, clarity dawned on Aziraphale, who pulled out the list and gave it to Crowley. 

“You clever creature, you found him all on your own. Do be a dear and run this over to him?” 

Crowley gave Aziraphale a look, who returned it with a full blown pout. 

“Well I’m right in the middle of a chapter, you see, and-”

Crowley rolled his eyes as far as his form would allow, before he took the list from Aziraphale and as dramatically as possible, slid away from him back down the skirts onto the floor. 

“Oh really, there’s no need for any of that,” he heard Aziraphale mutter tartly, already returning to his book while Crowley made his way back over to the boy. This time he went directly across the floor of the bookshop, ignoring the witches who made a fuss as they moved aside for him. He found the boy in the exact same position as before, completely engrossed in a page about the colour variation of gillyweed. 

He thought about just dropping the list and leaving, but he dimly remembered the boy’s grandmother, and reconsidered. Instead he slid directly up the boy and made enough noise as to not spook the child. Instead the boy looked up and looked vaguely surprised. 

“Hello,” he said. “I hope you’re friendly,” 

Crowley inclined his head and stretched out his neck, holding out the piece of parchment, which by now was a little crumpled from Aziraphale’s pocket. The boy stared back at him for a moment, before reaching out to take it. He looked back at Crowley in confusion, who motioned to it again. When that didn’t work, he reached out the tip of his tail and tapped on the watch on the boy’s wrist. At first he continued to look confused, but this slowly gave way to something else. His face drained of colour and his eyes widened, before he snapped the book shut and quickly gathered up his parcels. 

“Oh no, the Leaky Cauldron!” he whimpered, “Gran is going to be so mad! Thank you, Mr Snake!” 

And with that the boy hurried off, thankfully with all of his parcels with him. Crowley watched him go, before uncoiling to slither back into the noise of the shop, which seemed to now contain a few more raised voices. As he went, he realised two rather important things: firstly, that they themselves were going to be late if they didn’t leave soon, and secondly, that the raised voices he could hear belonged partially to someone he knew. 

“What do you mean this isn’t a library?” asked Aziraphale hotly, his cheeks a little pink from annoyance. The shop assistant in front of him, the same frazzled one Aziraphale had failed to notice earlier, looked far too tired to deal with Aziraphale’s mood. 

“This is a bookshop, you have to buy the books, not just sit and read them all day,” he explained, his shoulders sagging. 

“Well how would I know which ones I wanted to buy if I didn’t read them?” grumbled Aziraphale, “That’s what books are for!” 

“Yes, but you see-” 

The back and forth continued, but Crowley ignored it, choosing instead to coil around Aziraphale’s ankle and tug gently. 

“This is ridiculous,” interrupted Aziraphale, leaning down to gather Crowley up and abandon his impromptu armchair. “These books deserve to be read, and you’ve left them here all dusty,”

He pointed to the little pile next to him, reaching out to trail a finger along one and show the assistant the dust. The book seemed to shiver and push itself into Aziraphale’s touch, once again with a now unmistakable purr. 

“It’s not our fault no one wants to buy them,” shrugged the assistant. Aziraphale gave a great huff, looking back at the full bookshelf with a conflicted look. 

“Well I do!” he said loudly. “I’ll take _all_ of them!” 


	19. The Furnaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is late for work, and so runs an errand to the Furnaces and meets an angel he didn't expect to meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long delay between chapters, I had a bit of a depression spiral, which got overwhelmed by the election and Destiel. I hope this makes up for the absence a little?

That angel was going to be the death of him, thought Crowley with a heavy sigh, as he made his way down towards the metal workshops. 

It was only a simple sentence, but no matter how hard Crowley eyeballed Aziraphale, the angel refused to say it. 

_ “This might have been a mistake,”  _

He refused to say it while the shop assistant rung up the wall of books all while sneezing from dust and grumbling under his breath as he and another wizard hauled the full boxes one on top of the other.

He refused to say it as they packed the books away in several large trunks and brought them out onto the street and, finally free of their expected remit of duty, left Aziraphale standing there with five large trunks of books, and one very late snake. 

He refused to say it as he used the very last of his miracle allowance to lift the cumbersome trunks and trek them back towards whichever exit the library offered up this time. 

He refused to say it when they finally found their way back into the quiet, and once again dark and deserted, library. 

He had refused to say it as he had navigated the trunks through the tight twists of the library, or when they had squeezed them into the hidden ladder space which led to their attic. He had refused to say it when he had ruefully taken his pink robes off and placed them carefully to one side, as to avoid getting them any dustier than they already were. He had even refused to say it after many,  _ many _ trips up and down the ladder, lugging stacks of books up one after another, all the way growing a little pinker in the face, a little messier in the hair, and all the while steadfastly ignoring Crowley’s pointed stare. 

Eventually -  _ finally _ \- the books were all stacked carefully along the side of the attic wall, each one welcomed and dusted and in its place. Aziraphale’s new robes had been hung up with care on the other side of the attic, next to the dress from their garden party with the Colonel, and the picnic basket gifted to them by Dorothy. Not once did Aziraphale say anything about the whole affair, but Crowley could tell by the slight purse of his lips and the forced casualness of his expression that the angel was only too aware of his impulsive decision, and of Crowley’s deep amusement of the whole spectacle. 

Even now, as late as he was, as rushed as he was, Crowley couldn’t help but smile to himself as he remembered how the angel had managed to kiss him goodbye while still avoiding eye contact. 

Crowley had been late leaving the library again, even later than before, but he didn’t have the time to muster up much concern for it. Instead of rushing up into the rafters, he opted to take one of the staircases downstairs to the metal workshops. He remembered his previous conversation with Raum, and promising her some rings for her planets. Hopefully if he appeared with enough to share with the whole shift, his lateness might be overlooked. 

It grew hotter with every step he took down towards the metal workshops, and the air carried the tang of fire as it whipped through his hair. Along with the temperature, the familiar quiet of Paradise gave way to the steady roar of the furnaces being fed and stoked by angels dressed in brilliant red robes, tied back to leave their legs and arms free to work with their materials. The dust under Crowley's feet was black with soot, and as he came around the last turn of the staircase he found himself overlooking the metal workshop cavern. 

Unlike the other workshops of Paradise where angels worked in a set shift pattern, the metal workshops and the furnaces were stoked every hour of the clock by a rotating arrangement of angels and seraphs. The red Light-bringers were responsible for the constant and relentless heat of the furnaces, making sure they never went out and provided a stable heat for the Builders to do their work, pouring metal and molten rock into the forms needed to build the Earth’s natural wonders. There were dozens of smaller furnaces lining the sides of the cavern, each with Light-bringers working tirelessly, as Builders beat, hammered and shaped their creations on their black anvils. The combination of heat, noise and feverish energy were almost overwhelming as Crowley gripped onto the wall beside him. 

“Starmaker, what do you need?” 

Crowley looked away from the spitting mouth of the furnace closest to him and found an angel with deep orange robes beside him. His hair was plaited away from his sweating face, and his hands were blackened with soot. 

“I, um…” Crowley’s voice came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how unused his voice was, “We need rings for the planets, as many as you can spare,” 

The Builder nodded once and indicated for Crowley to follow him, and lead him further into the workshop. The Builder moved quickly, with the kind of practised fluidity that Crowley could only hope to master in this bipedal form, suddenly missing his secondary serpentine nature. He made his way as quickly as he could after the Builder, ducking under metal bars and shimmying past Light-bringers hauling large black boulders. The Builder led him to an area stacked with finished forms, some Crowley recognised and others he had never seen before. 

“We have these ready, you can take as many as you want,” said the Builder, pointing. Crowley followed his finger to a wall of hooks, each one holding multiple metal rings of different sizes and widths, each gleaming with colour and polished to perfection. Some were mottled with a hand beaten pattern, and others were engraved with lines in perfect symmetry to each other. Crowley wanted to say something to the Builder, something that would convey just how beautiful they were, how skilled the angels down here were, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. That was something Aziraphale fared much better with. Instead he reached out a hand and ran his thumb across the edge of a dark copper ring, admiring the slope of the metal. 

He looked back at the Builder and nodded, still trying to find the right words before his voice died in his throat. His eyes slid from the Builder to something behind him, something that burned with light from the centre of the workshop and he completely forgot what he had been about to say. The Builder glanced back at what Crowley was fixated on and fought back a smirk. 

“Oh, so you’re interested in something a bit bigger?” 

He motioned for Crowley to follow him, and led the way towards the centrepoint of the workshop. Crowley moved as if in a dream, his eyes unable to tear away from the white glow of pure light that shimmered out and touched every part of the workshop. As they drew closer, Crowley could see a raised area in the centre of the room, with a hollowed out cradle carved from the same black material the Light-bringers had been hauling to the furnaces, with large piercing arms that came up and over the cradle, forming sharp fingers which cupped the mass of energy that was being manipulated in its palm. 

The light moved as if it was something other than liquid or air, it moved like it had conscious thought, sliding and twisting and rippling against the confines of the cradle. It almost hurt to look at directly, the very centre seemed to beat with ice cold brightness. The surrounding flesh of radiance glimmered with colours, tendrils of it peeling away and reforming. This was not like the stars that Crowley and his fellow makers hung from the Heavens - this was a true star, born from Her own hands and left wild and powerful. 

Crowley felt the power of this wonder seep through him, the vibrations of it squeezing the air in his lungs and rattling every bone in his body as he simply witnessed it. 

“If you want some of that, you’re going to have to talk to him,” came the Builder’s voice in his ear, a hand moving past to point just beyond the curve of light. Crowley’s eyes tore free of the heart of the star and saw the angel who had dominion over it. 

Crowley had assumed that the movement had been the star’s own direction, but as he watched, the angel who stood at its crux clearly had complete control over it. He was almost impossible to see against the sheer blinding light, but his hands never left the star’s surface, gripping it tight and moving it with absolute confidence. Standing this close, Crowley could feel the power and icy heat assault his skin, but this angel was seemingly unaffected as he spun the star in tighter and tighter circles. The light condensed in on itself as it picked up momentum, the tendrils whipped away from the edges of the cradle. With a sudden lunge, the angel thrust his hand deep into the core of the star and pulled it free again in one smooth motion. A single glowing thread of pure star came free, gripped in his hand and he pulled back, drawing the glowing thread out as if from a spool. 

Crowley watched wordlessly as the angel looped the thread around his fist and drew it down to the workshop floor, looping it twice around the closest anvil nose and releasing it for the eager Builders to take over. The angel, now free from his task, turned back towards the cradle and came towards Crowley, using the same hand that had wrestled with the heart of the star to smooth his hair back from his temples. He smiled a wide and easy way, with a kind familiarity that Crowley didn’t expect. 

“Not often I get to see a Star-maker down here,” he said conversationally. Crowley blinked, and glanced down at his blue robes, before looking back up at too many things at once - the star, the arm of the black cradle, the angel smiling directly at him and still coming closer. 

“Not that can say I mind,” 

The angel’s voice was deep and smooth, and his eyes reflected the cold light of the star caught next to him as he stared back at Crowley. 

“You… I’ve never seen anyone handle a star like that,” said Crowley, clearing his throat again. He wanted to look away, but found himself unable to as the angel came closer. He could see the sweat cooling in the hollow of his throat, where his robes were tied back. He could see how the angel’s forearms were netted with veins, the muscles rippling as he wiped his hands against themselves to shake away the remnants of the star. 

“I doubt you’ve ever seen anyone handle a star at all. Not like the little playthings we send upstairs, is it?” came a response wrapped around a smirk.

Crowley bristled a little, finding his jaw was clenched. He opted to glower at the angel, but found that the other was no longer looking at his eyes, but travelling down Crowley’s body in a slow and measured way, noting where his long red hair fell at his elbow, his slender pale fingers, the hem of his robe now darkened with soot. As the gaze returned to his face, stopping only a moment to linger on just over his shoulder, Crowley spoke. 

“You have to keep it in this?”

He reached out to touch one of the black fingers of the cradle. The surface was like cut black glass, with colours reflected deep inside but trapped. 

“Careful,” said the angel, lifting a hand to intercept Crowley’s fingers and gripping his wrist with enough firmness to make Crowley bristle again. “Wouldn’t want you to get hurt, Star-maker,” 

Crowley pulled his hand free, once again glowering at the angel whose eyes seemed to be devouring Crowley’s features again. 

“What is it?” 

“It’s pure Darkness,” the angel told him, turning his face away from Crowley and nodding towards the shimmering edges. “We break it off on the outer edges of Paradise and bring it here to power the furnaces,” 

He motioned towards a Light-bringer nearby who was burdened under a huge broken slab of Darkness, his hands and arms black from the dusty residue. Crowley looked from the fuel back to the cradle, frowning. It didn’t look the same, aside from the same pitch colour.

“This Darkness is a little different. I mined the purest Darkness I could find, the veins that cast no reflection, and hammered it into this condensed shape. See these?” he gestured towards the cut glass edges that crisscrossed the surface. “As sharp as a razor’s edge, best not to touch. Not unless you want to bleed,” 

Crowley ignored him, watching the way the reflections of light on the arms of the cradle seemed to glimmer with colour before dissolving into the black glass. 

“And this is how you cage the star?”

The angel nodded, and Crowley could feel the eyes on him again as he looked below the cage and into the blinding heart of the star again, now a little diminished as the Builders continued to pull the thread free bit by bit. 

“Isn’t odd that they call you a Star-maker,” said the angel quietly, and Crowley realised with a small jolt that he had moved closer to him without realising. Closer up, he could see the dark colour of his eyes. They seemed to absorb reflections the same as the cradle. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well you don’t, do you? Make stars I mean. You just paint them, hang them up like nursery mobiles,” 

Crowley didn’t move, suddenly very aware of his own breathing and the tension crawling through his body. He didn’t say anything. 

“But you do it so beautifully, don’t you? Such an artist,” 

Crowley couldn’t think of a single coherent thought. Part of him wanted to argue, to snap back like a petulant child, but every other instinct in him willed him to protective stillness. The angel was smiling again, and gestured to Crowley’s skin. 

“I can see the paint speckles on your skin, what beautiful colours you use, Star-maker,” 

Crowley followed his gaze, glancing down at the back of his hand visible from his robes. The Light-bringer was right, he had spots of colour left dotted across his knuckles and fingers. They gleamed in the light from the furnaces. Another jolt passed through him as he realised the angel had reached up and was touching his hair. His fingers wove into the errant curls at the crook of Crowley’s elbow, winding a red lock around his index finger. 

“Seems to me a pretty Star-maker like you should have a little true starlight mixed in with all this colour, don’t you?”

Crowley watched as the leftover starlight from his hands came away onto his hair, leaving a streak of pure light. He didn’t move, all too aware of the proximity of the wild star, the closeness of this angel to him, the leash of his hair now in the angel’s hand. He didn’t think he even breathed until the angel trailed his fingers free, pulling the curl back and letting it bounce free playfully. 

“Time to be running along now, don’t you think? Don’t forget your rings, pretty little Star-maker,”

Crowley nodded quickly, avoiding the dark flashing eyes that roamed his face. 

“Crowley,” he said quickly, clearing his throat to say it again: “My name is Crowley,”

He didn’t look at his eyes, but at his teeth as the Light-bringer smiled wide and easy at him in return. 

“Oh, I know. Be seeing you, pretty little Star-maker,”

Crowley nodded again, aware that the heat on his face was not due to the heat of the furnaces. He could feel the heartbeat in his throat, and the jerkiness of his knees as he stepped away. He could feel the angel’s eyes on him the entire way out of the workshop, as he gathered up the rings and lifted his robes to climb the stairs out. He didn’t look back, but he could feel it. 

Breath returned to him as he started to climb the stairs, suddenly away from all eyes and able to feel his chest expanding with the cool air of Paradise again. He felt dizzy, a little overwhelmed, but there was a strange kind of energy which fizzled through his limbs as he climbed. An exhilaration he hadn’t encountered before. It almost hurt, the strange sensation which crackled through his skin and quickened his heart. 

He glanced down to rearrange the rings held in his arms and stopped short, a small gasp escaping him. Around his wrist, where the angel had gripped him, was a perfect starlight handprint circling his skin. 

  
  



	20. The Funhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley take a shadowy detour into a crazy coloured funhouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been gone quite a while, sorry about that! I meant to have this chapter and the one after it done for Halloween but life got in the way quite a lot. Thank you to anyone still following along!

The whole business with the books and the attic had been forgotten quite quickly, possibly a little too quickly for Crowley’s liking, but he found he didn’t seem to mind. He found he could put up with quite a lot of his angel’s shenanigans as long as there were kisses involved for him. 

And kisses there were indeed, as Crowley found himself scooped up and curled around Aziraphale’s shoulders and his head held in two hands, being peppered with affection all over his snout. 

“Hello, my lovely little thing,” sighed Aziraphale heavily, simply holding Crowley close to his face and giving another great big contented sigh. “I feel as if I haven’t seen you in an age,” 

Crowley knew what he meant. Any time away from each other seemed to go on forever, like he was living a completely separate reality away from his angel’s touch, and then slipping back into his true life, the one he was meant to be living. Aziraphale breathed in again, nuzzling his face into Crowley’s neck coil before pulling back to smile at him dazzlingly. 

“Someone’s been sliding around in the dust, haven’t they?” he smirked, eyes twinkling. 

Crowley looked down, but couldn’t see any traces of dust on himself, his scales gleaming as usual. 

“You smell a little...well, metallic maybe?” continued Aziraphale, going in for another sniff. “Maybe a hint of… oh, what is that? Woodsmoke?” 

Crowley gave a half hearted shrug, moving to wind himself once more around Aziraphale’s neck and hide himself under the angel’s chin. It didn’t work, as Aziraphale simply unlooped Crowley’s tail from under his armpit and ran his nose along it. 

“Hmm, it’s an  _ interesting _ aroma, whatever it is,” he concluded. “But perhaps not as nice as your normal smell,” 

_ Can we just change the subject _ , thought Crowley morosely. He had already spent enough time as it was trying to hide the new additions of starlight that had been leftover on his scales when he had transformed; he was less than pleased that he had overlooked the leftover influence of the furnaces. 

“Well, anyway, let’s get a wiggle on, shall we?” 

Aziraphale checked his pockets for his supplies, ink, quill, paper, checked once more for Crowley, and then they set off. 

\--

The morning turned out to be a little dull, with Aziraphale actually attending to his duties as expected for once. Crowley tried to stay present, listening to all the gentle things Aziraphale would say, either to himself, Crowley or to the books. When there was nothing to comment on or share with Crowley, Aziraphale would lapse into thoughtful quietness and then slip a little further into humming to himself. His throat rumbled gently as he hummed, and with the gentle rise and fall of his chest Crowley found himself being lulled to sleep.

He woke to a little squeeze of Aziraphale’s fingers to the coil of him that roughly translated to his armpit - his rather  _ ticklish _ armpit - and immediately gave an involuntary little squirm. His head popped up so quickly from where it had been tucked into Aziraphale’s collar that he bumped himself on Aziraphale’s chin. 

“Oh goodness, sorry my little thing, did I startle you?” 

Crowley gave another little squirm, moving as to tuck away his more sensitive spots as he blinked away the sleep. They were in one of the more chaotic corners of the Library, where the unusually black lacquered bookcases were much closer together forming narrow corridors, absorbing the feeble amount of light that the orbs threw out. There were a few candles dotted about in sconces at shoulder height, the flickering light showing the spiderwebs that criss crossed the narrow pathway, the books slowly being cocooned in the darkness. 

“It’s a little spooky, isn’t it?” said Aziraphale in an excited voice, lifting a hand to push a web away from his face as he tiptoed a little further into the darkness. His wings were gone again, once again folded away on another plane so he could forget about even pretending to look after them, the poor things. Crowley mused on what it would be like to offer to groom them for him, when he realised Aziraphale was speaking again. 

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve come down here with a duster in hand to tidy up, but I simply can’t bring myself to do it,”

Aziraphale ducked under another larger web which spanned the space between two towering bookcases that seemed to loom down. He straightened, thinking he had successfully avoided the web, but then gave a small splutter as he went face first into another one directly behind it. 

“Urgh, really!” he complained, lifting a hand to remove the web from his face and spit it off his tongue. He turned towards the centre of the web, still fussing the web from his curls, and gave a cross look to the occupant. 

“I don’t mind you making your home with the books, but you  _ know  _ how I feel about walking through them!”

Crowley looked to where Aziraphale was addressing this reproach, and found himself looking into the many-eyed of a large recumbent spider who was nestled in the origin of the large web now ruined by Aziraphale’s face. She wriggled her palps towards them, flicking them over her face several times.

“And now look, I’ve ruined your lovely design,” moaned Aziraphale, his shoulders dropping, “and I know how excited you were for that extension,” 

The spider crept forward a little, the candlelight flickering off her eyes as she regarded both the unhappy angel and Crowley, who had not stopped staring back at her. She was fairly large, with a dark brown body and a covering of hairs across her whole body and legs. She wriggled her palps at them again, and Crowley flicked out his tongue in response, also apologising for the damage caused. 

“May I introduce you to my companion?” 

Aziraphale lifted a hand to brush against Crowley’s jaw, looking between the two of them with a large smile. “I thought it was about time you met, Lucy here was one of the first wonders I ever met here in the Library - what a wonderful day that was,” 

Lucy came further forward to the edge of the bookcase, and wiggled her abdomen until Aziraphale lifted his hand to her. She moved in such a graceful way, her legs seemed to place barely any weight on Aziraphale’s skin. She turned in a small circle and waved her palps at him again, gesturing them further into the shadowy bookcases. Aziraphale followed the line of her gestures to peer further into the dark. 

“What have you got in there? Is it something fun?” 

They moved a little further into the dark, Aziraphale moving with as much care as he could to duck under and around more webs. The owners of these webs weren’t as friendly as Lucy it seems, if the scurried movements into the shadows and away from the flickering candlelight. Aziraphale continued to hold Lucy out in front of him carefully, following the motion of her legs as she steered him to take certain turns and ignore others. At a certain point he had to reach out and free a candle from the wall as the sconces seemed to be becoming less frequent, and the shadows threatened to swallow them up. 

Soon Crowley couldn’t see any bookcases left in the small patch of light the candle gave out, the webs thinning out and the air growing cooler. Instead they passed by a tree trunk, the weak light cutting deep grooves into the twisted bark. Soon another one loomed into view, with moss so dark growing up the side of it it looked like black fur leftover on a rotting carcass. Aziraphale made a small noise as he moved forward, tentatively picking each step with care as they moved through the silent forest. Crowley gave an involuntary shiver that traced through to the tip of his tail as a cold wind whipped through the tree trunks with a moan and, regrettably, snuffed the candle out. 

“Oh bother,” came Aziraphale’s prim voice from the darkness. 

Peering into the gloom was a touch unsettling, as the darkness seemed to press back against Crowley’s eyes like a physical presence. He twisted, turning his head but finding only the same solid emptiness in every direction. Instinctively he found himself shrinking further into Aziraphale’s solid warmth, tucking himself closer to the grounding point of his angel. Crowley could hear his footsteps across the earth beneath them, every breath seeming so loud. He felt a puff of Aziraphale’s breath slip over the scales on his neck and heard the angel’s voice from somewhere above him, somehow sounding just as at home here lost in the dark as he did lounging in their attic. 

“Little thing, can you see it?” 

Crowley twisted again, unable to pinpoint where Aziraphale’s voice was coming from, which way he was looking. A hand came up to touch him softly, giving him something to follow, and then he spotted it. A slight lift in the darkness, a gentle purple glimmer through the twisted trees of this dark forest. Aziraphale moved forward carefully, using his free hand to free for branches to move out of their way. The light grew brighter as they came closer, a garish purple glow which seemed to alternate with orange pinpricks. 

“What in all of Paradise…” 

Aziraphale side stepped another tree, and then they were in front of it. It was a building, quite a desolate building standing in the middle of the quiet midnight woods. It was tall, and oddly narrow with overbearing pointed arches over the entrance and on each eave. Built from the same black wood of the trees around them, it creaked with the wind every time a gust snatched through the branches, the black staring windows stretching up so tall as to loom over the three of them. The doorway was unlike anything Crowley had ever seen, carved to appear like an open mouth with twisted green lips pulled back over sharp yellowing teeth jutting into the darkness within, and a pair of glowing red eyes which seemed to follow them as they moved closer. Above the open black gash of the entrance was a large sign, lined with flashing orange lightbulbs, which trailed around neon purple letters in an endless crazed loop.

“‘Fun hose of Mirrors’?” read Aziraphale quietly, frowning a little at one of the letters that flickered, fighting to stay alight. “Oh, Funhouse! Funhouse of Mirrors - how charming!” 

Crowley considered this to be an interesting adjective to use, given the situation. He wasn’t sure if he would describe an abandoned gaunt mansion in the middle of the woods as a charming destination spot, but he had to admit it was certainly unique. He looked down at Lucy, who was wiggling at the sight of the funhouse, and waving her legs towards Aziraphale to go inside.

“Shall we?” smiled Aziraphale towards his two quarries, and Crowley morosely wondered what was the point in even asking, when Aziraphale clearly planned on entering the clearly haunted, possibly predatory, building. The stairs that led up into the mouth were lined in a moulded red carpet clearly meant to resemble the tongue of whatever face loomed over them, and the worn wood underneath each step groaned as Aziraphale climbed, the house seeming to wail as it realised another hapless victim was about to enter its gaping maw.

Pushing aside a heavy curtain, more neon light spilled out from inside, an aggressive blue which settled onto the angel’s robes and illuminated them like a beacon. Crowley blinked, a little startled, before looking up to see that the light had turned his hair and eyes a glowing vibrant blue, while his skin seemed to bleed out into the darkness. 

“Oh my!” giggled Aziraphale, but not at himself. He was grinning at Crowley, who had just noticed how the angel’s teeth glowed as well. “Look at you, little thing,” 

Crowley looked down, twisting himself in a knot to see what the angel meant, suddenly worried maybe that blasted curl of starlight was visible again - but found that instead his black scales absorbed nearly all of the blue light, leaving him an inky loop around Aziraphale’s neck, all except for his scarlet underbelly which seemed to glow a rather intense shade of pink. 

“What a fetching colour on you,” beamed the angel, stepping over to a full length mirror just to the right of them and tracing a hand along Crowley’s neck, “Just like my dress, don’t you think?” 

_ Pink again… of course…  _ thought Crowley, sighing heavily as he surveyed them both in the mirror. Lucy caught his eye once more, the spider almost completely untouched by the glowing light except for the very tips of the hairs of her body and limbs. She was once again dancing on Aziraphale’s palm, trying to motion for them to keep going. Looking past her, he noticed that this full length mirror was only the first, and the whole corridor was lined with them. 

“I suppose it would be foolish to visit a house of mirrors and not expect a lot of mirrors,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “I wonder what makes them so fun?” 

This didn’t take long to answer. Each mirror seemed to have a different effect cast on it, either from the way the glass had been manipulated, or some other illusion the house had up its sleeve. One made all of them appear very wide and fat, giving Aziraphale an even more portly belly and turning Crowley from an elegant serpent into a chunky lizard. Another made them very tall and thin, a look which frankly did not suit the lovely angel one bit. The next one along had ripples across the reflective surface, making them look like bizarre hourglasses, while the one directly opposite ballooned the size of Aziraphale’s head up to an unbelievable size. 

Another heavy curtain lined the end of the corridor, and this time when Aziraphale pulled it back the glowing neon effect was overpowered by a kaleidoscope of colours. Stepping through they had entered a maze of mirrors, with multiple Aziraphales and Crowleys reflected in receding diagonals in every direction. Even the floor was mirrored, a highly shined black lacquer which amplified the floor to ceiling mirrored glass which reared up over them in dozens of identical gothic archways. The colour came from the ceiling, which was lined with dozens upon dozens of coloured light bulbs, arranged in endless patterns and rhythmically pulsing on and off to add further difficulty in navigating their way forward. 

Aziraphale’s mouth had dropped open at the sight of the illusions, his eyes wide as he peered up towards the flickering lights and then back at Crowley, who was staring at the profile of his reflection carefully in one of the mirrored surfaces and reminding himself just how good of a job he had done in creating such a fine form. He was pulled out of this smug reverie by Aziraphale, who had made a small noise of delight and moved forward to admire the new space, only to walk face first into an unseen pane of glass directly in front of them. 

“Ow!” complained the angel with a pout, holding his nose and squinting at the glass in accusation. Crowley hissed gently, the snake equivalent of a snort, but also moved up to check on the angel’s face. 

“That hurt,” Aziraphale’s eyebrows tipped as he looked at Crowley miserably. Crowley leaned forward to press his snout against Aziraphale’s nose and whipped it gently with his tongue. It was a little red from the bump, but Aziraphale seemed to appreciate the kiss. 

“Thank you, little thing. I suppose I will have to be a bit more careful, won’t I?” he said, casting his free hand out to touch at the nearly invisible glass that blocked their path forward. “This maze may prove a little more devious than it appears,” 

He looked at Lucy, who had been watching patiently from his uptipped palm. 

“Any chance you know the way through?”

If she did, she didn’t indicate it. Aziraphale nodded with a resolute sigh. 

“Ok, no bother. Let’s pop you somewhere out of the way, I think I’m going to need two hands for this!” 

With Crowley lounging around his shoulders, Aziraphale found there was a lack of suitable options for her. He ended up depositing the spider on the top of his head, nestled among his curls. Crowley would have found the time to feel a pang of jealousy, except Aziraphale then had both hands free to immediately tuck Crowley back around his neck and smooth his head to rest against his throat before straightening his robes, squaring his chin and taking the first confident step forward, both hands stretched out carefully. 

The maze proved rather devious, even with the care Aziraphale was taking. Several times they ended up spiraling through paths to find a sudden dead end, and having the backtrack, always accompanied by a dozen other Keepers, all with their companions, helping them retrace their steps and yet still never being sure they had been accurately done. Several times Crowley felt a dizzy sense of stress start to creep up his scales one by one, watching Aziraphale’s hands find invisible wall after invisible wall, forcing them to stop. Or they stepped into another corridor of reflections, and there were enough of them to know there was no exit. Or when they ended up turning in place, over and over until Aziraphale found a diagonal slant that led a little deeper. Each time this panic began to creep, Aziraphale seemed to feel the tension around his neck and raised a hand to Crowley, cupping his head gently and making the softest noises of reassurance. 

“Look at the splendid colours, little thing,” he would say, gesturing to the vibrant display above them, or maybe:

“It’s so lovely to see so many of my beloved little things at once, isn’t it? I do wish I could gather you all up in so many coils and give all of you a big kiss,”, which would be quickly followed with a noisy wet kiss to the top of his head, and a beaming smile of victory as every mirrored Aziraphale gave the same kiss to every mirrored Crowley. 

“Don’t worry, little thing, I’m sure whatever is at the centre of this maze will make all of this worthwhile,”

Crowley wasn’t sure of the exact moment he realised they were making progress, but he realised the lights above them were starting to change. Instead of the riot of rainbow lights, the colour palette had altered, leaving just the violets, deep blues and ambers. Instead of flickering in a dizzying pattern, they were all pulsing in one direction, leading them down certain pathways. Finally they turned a corner and saw something like wasn’t a Keeper or a tangled up serpent, or even a dozing spider. 

“Ah, you see little thing? We’ve made it!” chuckled Aziraphale, reaching out to confirm that, yes, it was a heavy curtain leading out of the maze and into the next room. He pulled back the curtain, and cautiously leaned his head through. It was dark beyond it, Crowley blinked to try and get his eyes to adjust to the change but then he saw a single brightly lit spot in the centre of the room they had found themselves in. It was a circular table with a large lantern directly above it and spilling warm golden light down across its lacquered surfaces, interrupted only by the bodies of the occupants seated around it. Crowley only had a split second to take this in before the one directly over the table looked past his companion and spotted them, lifting a hand to gesture them in while calling out.

“Ah finally! Fresh blood!” 


	21. The Poker Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley meet a series of famous characters, and a conversation ensues.

Crowley had experienced many incredible things since his first foray into the Library. Between mad tea parties and enchanted gardens, talking rabbits and bewitched books, he still never would have expected to find himself involved in a game of poker surrounded by such an odd and mismatched array of people. 

Seated to Aziraphale’s left was a figure wrapped head to toe in dusty bandages, with dried out decayed fingertips holding their cards rather stiffly, leaning forward now and again with a creak to observe the brightly lit pot in the middle of the table over their sunglasses before retreating away from the pool of light. Next to this silent mummified figure there was a man slumped so casually in his chair that it was only the flicks of his eyes towards the other players, and the occasional languid movement of a hand rearranging his cards which proved he wasn’t actually asleep. He wore a loud Hawaiian shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal thick muscular arms which were covered in a dark layer of silky hair, leading to his hands which were tipped with wicked looking black talons. The mane of hair on his head was slicked back from his face and occasionally he grinned to himself, flicking a blood red tongue across his pointed teeth. Crowley saw a flicker of the gold canine tooth flash in the light as the carnivore laid his cards down. 

“Three of a kind! How’s that for a mutt?” he growled, a heavy New York accenting twisting his gleeful words. He was addressing the female opposite him, as the only other player still active in the round and had fixed all eight of her large shiny black eyes on him without blinking. She was wearing a baggy midnight blue hoodie, with a matching pair of sweatpants with all eight legs tucked under the table and crossed in a complicated array of limbs. Instead of a chair, she was seated on a low stool to allow her sizable thorax the space behind her. Crowley wondered what she was wearing at the end of her legs, and whether driders preferred to wear slippers during their downtime. She leaned forward, her messy hair twisted up and away from her face in an unruly bun, and smirked a little. 

“Not bad, but doesn’t beat a flush, does it?” she hissed lightly, laying her cards down for the wolfman to see, before leaning over to help herself to her winnings: a stack of poker chips, a few crumpled notes, and the wolfman’s gold watch. 

“Aw crap,” muttered the wolfman, dragging a hand across his face. “I thought you were bluffin’,” 

“And that’s why you lost, Vincent,” she grinned back, showing a rather large set of needle sharp fangs. 

“Gosh, that was exciting,” whispered Aziraphale to Crowley. He was holding a handful of cards, but clearly had no idea what to do with them. He was perched on his chair very primly, leaning forward and watching everyone else at the table with wide, excited eyes. 

“It could have been a bit more exciting if you had stuck on in there,” came a voice next to them, and Crowley twisted to look at the woman sitting next to them. She was very tall and angular, her bronze coloured skin shining with scales very similar to Crowley, but she maintained a humanoid shape all except for her hair, which Crowley could barely tear his gaze away from now that he had realised exactly what they were. 

“What do you mean?” whispered back Aziraphale above him, a little giddy. She flicked her chin towards his cards, which he had done a terrible job hiding to himself, and smiled. 

“You have a full house,” 

Aziraphale blinked, still with that happy but confused look on his face. 

“I have a… house?”

“A full house,” she repeated, both ignoring the conversation that had broken out between Vincent, who was trying to negotiate his watch’s return, and the drider Mary, who very reasonably maintained that he should never have bet it in the first place. 

“I’m so sorry, you’ve lost me there, I don’t have any kind of property,” 

She laughed, and Crowley found himself distracted, as the living coils of her hair seemed to laugh with her, dozens of eyes looking back at him. A nest of black, shiny snakes seemed to tumble straight from her scalp, slinking down across bare shoulders and looping through each other, the ones at the back trying to get a good look at him, whilst the ones at the front seem to duck behind each other from shyness. The gorgon leaned a little closer to Aziraphale, and Crowley found himself nearly snout to snout with dozens of beautiful snakes. 

“Your cards. In this order, we call this a full house - it’s a very good hand. You could have won this round if you had stayed in,” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale made a noise of comprehension, nodding. “I understand. But don’t I need something to stay in? You were all adding things, I don’t think I -”

“Here,” she said, sliding half of her chips in front of him. “The blue ones are 5s, the red are 10s and the black are 50s. You have to match the amount others put in, if you think you can win,” 

Aziraphale smiled at her charmingly, giving the illusion that he understood, but Crowley knew that he still had no idea what he was doing. Below his chin, Crowley also had no idea what he was doing. The unblinking stares from the curious tangle of snakes were all getting a little too much, and he slinked back into Aziraphale’s robes. He curled himself up and tucked his snout under his tail so only his eyes appeared above the coils. 

The gorgon smiled at him, and lifted a hand to sweep her hair back over her other shoulder, ignoring the surprised hisses from her head. 

“Don’t mind them, cutie. Just looking,” 

At that point, the man sitting across from them who had first welcomed them forth cleared his throat and leaned back into the light. 

“So, angel, what brings you to our table tonight?” 

“Oh! Um, well… I don’t know, I suppose, I just sort of…” 

“Ended up here? It happens to the best of us,” agreed the man, whose deathly pale skin seemed to reflect the light. He was gaunt with pitch black hair and eyebrows, and a deep sonorous voice which dripped in charisma and charm. “I suppose I didn’t expect to see an angel - of all creatures great and small - find its way here, to the belly of the beast,” 

Aziraphale looked around past the table, to the plain back room they found themselves in. It wasn’t much like the typical haunt of horrors, just a room with some chairs stacked at the end of one wall and a door opposite the curtain they had entered from, marked ‘WC’. 

“Is this… the belly of the beast?” 

“He’s being dramatic,” Mary said, rolling all of her eyes at the host. “Vampires  _ love _ to be dramatic, don’t they, Drac?” 

“What I mean,” sair Drac, glowering at Mary, “is we don’t tend to see too many angels wandering around the forest, or stumbling into our lair-”

Mary snorted. “‘Lair’, pur- _ lease _ ! This is just where we play cards,”

“You mean, where we convene for our weekly meeting of destruction, decadence and dea-”

“You’re worse than Mothman for all this ooky spooky crap,” groaned Vincent. “So what if the angel wants to play a little poker? You don’t think Heaven gets a bit boring? Are we playing or what? I have one night off this week, and I want to play some goddamn cards.”

Vincent turned over his shoulder and whistled, clearly over the look of petulant annoyance on Drac’s face. 

“Hey, Lucy, can we get another round? And something for the angel, whatever they drink-” he turned back, pointing at Aziraphale. “What’ll it be? Honey, nectar? Holy vodka?” 

“Do you have any tea?”

Vincent made a face and turned back over his shoulder. 

“He’ll have what Meddy’s having,” he called. He turned back and reached for the stack of cards, shuffling them roughly between his solid hands. Dracula had been leaning on one elbow during this, pinching the bridge of his nose like he had a headache. Once Vincent had finished yelling, he gave a heavy sigh, fired a look at the wolfman, before turning back to Aziraphale and smiling. 

“My question still stands. What brings you to our little social engagement?” 

Aziraphale shrugged, jostling Crowley a little. 

“Well, we just, sort of, ended up here?” he offered. “You see, I work in Paradise’s Library, and sometimes there are these doors, and my companion here and I, we like to go on these kind of adventures-”

“I’m sorry, Paradise has a Library? Whatever for?” 

“What do you mean, what for?” grumbled Mary, “For books, of course. Let him finish,” 

Azirapahle smiled a little, stumbling over his words a little. 

“Well, you see, it’s got all the books that will  _ ever _ be written, and there’s just so much of it all, being that it’s  _ everything  _ ever written, and it needs to be looked after, Kept if you will, and I think it gets rather bored sometimes-”

Dracula had a peculiar expression on his face. In fact, all of them were looking at Aziraphale with curious expressions on their faces. The cards were motionless in Vincent’s hands.

“So I think, just to keep it interesting, it likes to sort of, bring them to life, and it all sort of spirals from there - and it would be so  _ rude _ to just ignore it, you know, and it’s all so marvellous-”

At that moment, a glowing translucent figure appeared from the darkness behind Dracula. It seemed to be made of a hazy white light which flowed down from the crown of the head like a sheet. It moved as if floating in the air, slowly. As it drew closer Crowley realised it was only gliding slowly to avoid spilling the tray it held somehow in its white spectral hands. One by one, the ghost made stops around the table, another unseen hand seeming to lift the drink from the tray and place it gently in front of its drinker: a martini of blood vodka for Dracula, a neat whiskey for Vincent, a tall glass of white wine spritzer for Mary, two glasses of Merlot for Meddy and Aziraphale, and finally a can of coke with a very long straw for the mummy, who groaned in gratitude. Lucy made another loop of the table, pausing to gesture towards Crowley (“Oh, he can have some of mine, thank you so much,” insisted Aziraphale, raising the glass to sniff at the wine), and then again at the only empty chair at the table. 

“Oh, Ben’s running behind, he’s got a late shift tonight. He’ll be here soon though, maybe best to bring him his usual,” said Meddy, smiling widely at Lucy. The spectre inclined its featureless head and glided away. Vincent smirked to himself, before leaning forward to get Aziraphale’s attention. 

“Hey, why did the ghost never want to play poker?” he said, setting up the joke. The table groaned, clearly having heard the joke before, but Vincent kept grinning at Aziraphale, unbothered. 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale answered truthfully. 

“Because you can always see right through ‘em!” he laughed, slapping the table and giving a self-satisfied cackle. His mirth was suddenly cut short but a rough intake of breath and a cuss word. Lucy had glided back to the table, and straight through the unsuspecting werewolf, delivering the last drink (a large beautifully headed pint of Guinness) before gliding away again. 

“You should have learnt your lesson by now,” came a voice behind Aziraphale, and both he and Crowley twisted to look at the newcomer. 

“Ben! Just in time,” 

The figure was another very tall man, who had ducked in from under the curtain and was now facing the hatstand in the corner, shrugging off a large wool overcoat and unwinding a mustard colour scarf. His skin was scaled as well, but each scale was much more prominent and coloured a vibrant emerald green. He removed his bowler hat with one webbed clawed hand and strode towards the table. 

He sank down gratefully into his seat and used another clawed finger to push his spectacles up onto his face, which proved difficult as he appeared to be lacking a nose. 

“Bugger me, that was a long one,” Ben said heavily, in a chipped British accent. “All that screaming really gives you a headache,” 

All of them nodded, and Vincent began to deal them the next round of cards. 

“Another late shift for you? You seem to be getting a lot of them,” asked Mary, sipping her wine. Ben, who was watching his pint settle to the perfect ratio, nodded. 

“I suppose that del Toro movie got everyone back into Creatures, so I can’t really complain, can I? If the work’s there, then do the work,” 

Again, there was a rumble of agreement around the table, and introductions were made to Aziraphale and Crowley while Vincent discarded the top card of the pile, and dealt the first three cards. 

“Aziraphale here was just telling us about the magical Library he comes from, and how all of this is one of his special adventures,” said Drac, and Crowley couldn’t help but notice the vein of ice running through his voice. The others didn’t seem to react, but no one apart from Ben looked up to meet Aziraphale’s eye. 

“Well that’s certainly an interesting development,” he commented. “So, just to be clear, you’re a celestial intermediary between the Almighty and the humans?”

Aziraphale blinked a few times, but nodded. 

“And as far as you’re concerned, all of this-” he gestured to the table and further afield, “is just some magical portal into a book some human hasn’t written yet?” 

Crowley glanced up towards Aziraphale’s face as silence followed Ben’s question, as the others seated around the table looked at him for an answer. 

“Well… yes, I suppose,” Aziraphale said quietly. 

Ben nodded for a second, his brow furrowed with thought, before he turned towards Dracula and pointed. 

“See, now, what we’re not going to do is use this as some sort of twisted logic to keep making your stupid ‘ultimate evil’ argument,”

Dracula gave a shrug, with a dramatic flare of his hand. 

“Now why on Earth would I want to do that? Where would be the fun in winning a debate about the true nature of good and evil, when a literal angel just so happens to waltz into our little-”

“Aw crap,” groaned Vincent loudly, as Ben opened his mouth to argue back. “Here we go,” 

“What’s going on?” whispered Aziraphale to Meddy, who was ignoring the exchange between the Creature and the vampire. She made a face, somewhere between resignation and boredom, as Crowley watched her hair yawn and begin to tuck itself away around her neck. 

“Drac and Ben have this stupid thing going, about the nature of good and evil, and I must say, I’m sick to death of it,”

“It’s been like this for as long as I can remember,” groaned Mary, who had polished off her spritzer and was examining her nails. “We banned them from doing this, but-” she gestured at the two bickering figures with a full body roll of her eyes. Even the mummy, who hadn’t contributed anything to the conversation since they’d arrived, released an exhausted groan. 

“Basically,” said Meddy, leaning closer to talk in a low voice to Aziraphale, “Drac believes that we, as the ‘villians’ I suppose, not only represent the evils of the human world via metaphor, but we should also be the definition of evil as well - that everything we do should be focussed on the degradation and destruction of virtue,” 

“Oh gosh,” murmured Aziraphale. 

“Whereas Ben believes our role in fiction is to provide an allegory of the evil of man and their choices, and we as symbols of it are actually fully separated from their choices and desires, thus we in ourselves cannot be ‘evil’,”

“Even more basically, while we’re the ‘bad guys’, we’re not actually bad guys,” added Vincent, giving Meddy a look. “It’s not that complicated, have you seen  _ Wreck-It Ralph _ ?” 

“Hold on, hold on - you’re missing the point, as always,” interrupted Ben, talking over Dracula who was trying to clarify a point about the etymology of the word ‘pure’. Ben turned back towards Aziraphale. 

“Just to be clear, you’re an angel right? Which kind of angel are you? There are different types, right?” 

Aziraphale perked up at this. 

“Oh yes! Well, I’m a principality, one of the, um,  _ lower _ classes of angels, but there are nine classes so-”

“And, forgive me if I’m wrong, but an angel's purpose is to act out the will of God, yeah?” 

“Well, yes, within the classes we all have roles within Her will. I, for example, am a Keeper, I look after all of the works of earth, and then there’s-”

“And is that your entire purpose?” Ben interrupted again. There was a beat of silence as Aziraphale considered the question. 

“Well, I suppose it depends on your definition of the word purpose,” he offered. “There’s my divine duty, and then there’s… the other stuff,”

Ben made a hand gesture, indicating for Aziraphale to go into more detail.

“Well, as I have been told to ‘keep’ the Library, my purpose is care for it, in every way that it requires. It’s not just an empty stack of books and cold corridors, it’s so much more than that. Every single word of those books had to be chosen and put down with intent, whether to be to educate, or to entertain, or to give solace. It’s a living, breathing creation of feeling, of - using your word here - purpose,” 

Crowley had slowly moved to Aziraphale’s shoulder during this small speech, wanting to see the brightness in his angel’s eyes as he described his charge. 

“And, as my role is to Keep it, to love it, I must understand it, I must give it the care and attention that one would give a crackling fire, or a blooming flower, or the building of a delicate silk web,” continued Aziraphale, lifting a hand to Lucy who Crowley had completely forgotten was tucked up in the angel’s curls. As he lowered her, Mary fixed her eyes on her and gave a small gasp of delight, holding out her hands to the little spider who was wiggling her thorax like a puppy. Ben and the others watched as Mary scooped the arachnid up and lifted her to her face. 

“Oh my little baby, hello!” cooed the drider. 

Across the table, Ben sat back in his chair and sighed heavily. 

“Isn’t there an awful sense of irony there?” he asked to the table, but mostly to Aziraphale. Meddy turned her head sharply, her snakes now twisting themselves into braids over the reunion next to them. 

“Ben, that’s enough,” she said, just as Aziraphale asked ‘What do you mean?” 

“Well, it’s ultimately about free will, isn’t it?”

Vincent rubbed a hand across his face, giving up on his cards and pulling a phone out of his pocket. The mummy started the long process of sitting back in his chair, resulting in a lot of creaking. No one said anything, including Aziraphale. Ben cast around a look, before looking back at Aziraphale and giving a rather insincere smile. 

“Isn’t there some horrible irony in an angel in permanent servitude to God, forced to guard this grand, wonderful Library documenting humanity’s complete onslaught of free will, when you will never be granted the same freedoms?” 

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but then closed it again. 

“Think about it,” said Ben coldly, “You will never be given the same privilege as the humans, despite everything you do for them. You’re lower than they will ever be, just a  _ servant _ for a God that doesn’t care-,”

“Ben, leave him alone, this damn chip of your shoulder about humanity - don’t take it out on Azira-”

“You’re being such a dick,” 

An argument broke out across the table, with Mary raising her voice and accusing Ben of being cruel, while both Dracula and Vincent turned to Ben and laid into him, but no one except Meddy and Crowley seemed to be watching Aziraphale. His expression was almost unreadable, but he was looking squarely at Ben with his chin steady. Crowley’s mind was running in spirals, and all he could think to do was to coil close to his Keeper and ignore the words that were digging away under his scales. 

“Ben, you’re not- Ben! Listen to me. He’s an angel - a literal angel, will you just-” Dracula was getting louder across the table.

“No, no. Shut up, hold on,” interrupted Ben, turning back to Aziraphale. “Azira, Azzy… sorry, please tell me your name again,” 

“Aziraphale,” the Keeper prompted, without any anger or hurt. 

“Aziraphale, let me ask you something really quick - no, shut up Drac, give me a minute - jeez. Look, this whole magic Library thing, how do you know it’s the real deal?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Ok, let me think, you know who we are, right? You’ve seen our books, the movies?” 

Aziraphale glanced around at Meddy, who was staring down into her wine as if it would get her out of there, but then nodded.

“Of course. I must say I’m a fan too, some wonderful storytelling-”

“Ok, see, that’s part of my point - stories, at least to you, you think they’re stories. But to us, they are our actual lives. We don’t stop existing once you go back through a door, do you understand? We lived through these iterations, we turned up in reboots and interpretations and goddamn tween angst dramas. We were created through no free choice of our own, but we continue to have lives outside of the fiction that made us famous - I have a partner and two kids, Meddy there designs clothes in her downtime, even Drac-” he cut off, looking back at his friend who was glaring at him. “The point is, we weren’t just plucked out of the ether to make your day more exciting, you wandered into our storylines, but maybe you just walked out of your own instead?”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything.

“Have you heard of the Bible?” continued Ben. “It’s this whole thing, kinda a big deal to some of the humans, they get pretty testy over it,” 

“Well, yes, the Holy Scriptures, of course I know about them,” said Aziraphale. Below his chin, Crowley subconsciously coiled up tighter.

“Well, how do you know that you aren’t just a character made up from one of those scriptures, just like we were made up from a pulp fiction novel? What makes you so sure that your reality of omnipotent goodness is the core reality, compared to this one we’re in right now?” 

There was a moment of tense silence, and several pairs of eyes moved from Ben to Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s hand came up to press onto Crowley, a finger worming under his body to free the space between Crowley’s tight hold on his neck. 

“I suppose I don’t know how to explain it,” he said simply. “At the core of everything...Everything I have seen, everything I have read, it’s not as simple as how you have said. Yes, there is free will, and yes, I am a servant, but it’s not as black and white as you seem to want to view it. I am a part of something beyond any understanding, including my own, and that does not necessarily mean that just because I do not understand the entire scope of Her vision, that I do not choose to play, in my own small way, my own part in that greater understanding. It does not mean that my actions have any less value than someone with less scope, or even more. None of it is ever as simple as that. Within all that complexity, there is a single understanding that I know - I have  _ faith _ in Her truth,” Aziraphale’s eyes had gone a little cloudy, but he was smiling with his fingers still resting on Crowley. 

There was a moment of quiet, as all of them looked at them. Ben and Drac both had furrowed brows, whereas the mummy was staring at Aziraphale over his sunglasses with an unmoving expression. Next to them Meddy had a small smile on her face, but her eyes were clouded over with a tinge of sadness. 

“Oh, to have faith,” she sighed gently. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally intended this to be up for Halloween 2020, because I really wanted to have the famous movie monsters in this story, but I'm posting this in February 2021 instead, because best laid plans often get overruled by excessive napping. I really struggled with this chapter because of course I decided to have a serious discussion happen, in a fic that relies almost solely on cute fluffy scenes.
> 
> In this we have the Mummy, the Wolfman (I just plucked the name Vincent and the New York accent, I don't know why), Mary the drider (I wanted to do the Stalk from Saga, but the velour tracksuit spider mommy won), Medusa, a traditional Dracula and Lucy the ghost (Like Lucy - Lu - transLucent bad joke) and then Ben, named after the first actor to play the Creature.


End file.
